Seeking And Finding
by Anonymoustache
Summary: John wakes up one morning to silence in the flat. He assumes it's because of the fight he and Sherlock had the night before. However, when Sherlock doesn't come back after a couple days, John begins to worry. With the help of DI Lestrade and Mycroft, he begins to search for Sherlock. How will he find his friend, and when he does, can things ever be the same? Eventual Johnlock.
1. Complete Silence

John awoke to complete silence.

Complete silence was not necessarily a bad thing, in 221B. In fact, he found that he rather liked it; not waking up to gunshots or explosions or (heaven forbid) Sherlock whining always rated high in his book.

No, the silence definitely didn't bother him. It was the circumstances of the silence that made him tense, and perhaps a bit nervous.

The soldier slid out of bed, wearing nothing but boxer shorts and a ratty old t-shirt that had been used multiple times as Sherlock's shooting target. He yawned widely and scratched unconsciously at his wounded shoulder, a habit that somehow had replaced the limp. He heard his stomach growl rather loudly and heard the jam and toast calling his name in the kitchen.

Heading down the too-quiet hallway towards the kitchen, John poked his head into Sherlock's room. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. Neither, John noticed, was he in the living room, or the bathroom, or the kitchen. Which meant that Sherlock, who seemed to take pride in finding the most irritating ways to wake John up, had for some reason left the flat and left John to his dreams.

"If this is your way of making up for last night, you daft git, apology accepted." John muttered, knowing that wherever Sherlock was he couldn't hear him. And oh, how right he was. How right he was.

...

Sherlock's eyes opened, and the very first thing he saw was another pair of eyes directly focused on his face. One didn't have to be a consulting detective to know that these were eyes of malice. Definitely not John, most likely Moriarty.

"Oh, goody, you're awake!" said Most Likely Moriarty. "Now we can have some fun!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Definitely Moriarty. This was not a desirable way to start his morning. He turned his head just slightly to the left for a better viewpoint. Person; Moriarty, Jim (a bit not good, as John liked to say). Location; Abandoned packing plant, English countryside, ten-hour drive from Baker Street. Small upper-floor room, hastily installed screen on far wall, doorframe to the right, railed walkway and vast space outside of it. What kind of packing plant? Oh, obvious; specifically stacked crates in the corner, dampness near the ceiling indicating high humidity and pressure levels, so some kind of food…pickles, yes, of course, pickles, slightly salty taste to the air, empty jars lining shelf to the left…

Sherlock was pulled violently from his mind palace by a hard slap to the face.

"Awww, come on, Sherly, try to pay attention." said Jim in what was quite possibly the whiniest voice Sherlock had ever heard…and that included himself. "We're going to play a little game, and I don't want you retreating into your little fairy castle. No, I want you to be conscious and awake for every. Single. Minute."

Sherlock groaned. "Mind palace, Jim. Mind palace, not "little fairy castle". Honestly, can anybody get it right?"

Jim gave him a very fake smile. "Oh. Of course, Sherly darling. Mind palace. Whatever you say. After all, today is your day, isn't it?"

"Yes, very smart, bravo, Jim, you figured out my birthday." Sherlock deadpanned in his dullest voice. "As if it really matters that much."

A sadistic smile crossed Jim's face. "Oh, but it does. It really does. Because I'm going to give you the best birthday present you ever had. One that you will never, ever forget."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You can try," he said in a bored voice, "but I highly doubt there's anything of yours that will make much of an impression on me."

"Oh, really?" said Jim in that same creepy voice, "But I beg to differ. I have something of yours that I think you really might want back. And you can have him! When I'm done with him, of course."

Jim whirled around, pulled a remote from his pocket, and pressed a small green button at the top of it. The large screen on the opposite wall blinked on, and what appeared took Sherlock's breath away. "No…" escaped his lips in a half gasp before he could stop it.

Jim turned back to his guest. "Oh, yes, Sherly. Now do you believe me?"

The screen showed a small, damp room, much like the one they were currently in. However, in the middle of the screen sat a chair. And tied to that chair, with enough rope to hold down a young bull elephant, was John Watson.


	2. You Or Him

"No…" Sherlock whispered to himself.

Jim cackled. "Oh, yes, Sherlock. Oh, yes. The good doctor has been most accommodating, don't you think?"

He held the remote out just enough for Sherlock to see. "You see this? With this remote, I can control everything that goes on in that room that contains John Watson." He grinned. "I'm more powerful even than your big bro, Sherly."

Sherlock pursed his lips together. He was not rising to this. No, he was going to stay perfectly calm and find a way to get both him and John out of there...

Jim noticed Sherlock's apparent attempt to control himself. "Awww, but don't worry too much, Sherl, honey. Remember, this is just a game." He widened his eyes. "And oh, did I mention? Because I'm such a kind and generous soul, I'll give you a chance to save your buddy, your only friend. Here it is…"

Jim leaned in close to Sherlock, and said in a low voice, "You…or him? That's your chance to save, Sherlock. You, or him."

He pulled back and walked away towards the corner, still speaking in that quiet yet resonant voice. "This is the game, Sherlock. Do you care enough to sacrifice your pain for his? This is your chance to prove that you have a heart." He turned and grinned. "With a cost, of course. Everything costs, nowadays."

"Thirty minutes, Sherlock." Jim said as he walked out the door. "You have thirty minutes for an impossible choice." He turned and winked. "See you in half an hour, honey."

….

"Well, well. Look who's at work today."

John spoke without looking for the source of the voice. "Hello, Sarah. Yes, I'm at work. Great deduction."

Sarah leaned against the doorframe. "So why are you here today and not with him, speaking of deductions?"

John swiveled around in his chair. "Actually, he left sometime last night. Haven't seen him all morning."

"Really? So you must have actually slept last night, then."

John blushed heavily. "Sorry, but I'm actually not gay, for anyone who still cares."

Sarah's face pinched slightly, and she straightened. "John, honestly. I was only saying that he always seems to keep you up for cases." She turned to leave. "I'm going to have to break our lunch date. An old friend of mine is back in town and I told him I'd show him around London, so maybe some other time." And the one woman John had actually been able to get a date with was gone, as well as said date.

John sighed heavily. "I'm not," he told himself, "I'm really not. It just seems like it sometimes…even to me, I suppose."

….

Several miles across London, in a large office at the Diogenes Club, a phone, high-tech and obviously belonging to someone with a variable amount of money, went off in the middle of the lounge.

Mycroft cringed as the tone filled the hall. It was a highly irritating pop song that was all the rage with young teenagers these days-Sherlock had hijacked his phone one evening and downloaded it as revenge for forcing him to attend a family dinner with their parents. He quickly hit the silencer and headed for his office.

Once there, with his door shut and bolted, he unlocked the phone and went to his inbox. Video message, short length, from an unknown (probably restricted) number. He clicked the link and it began to play. He wasn't prepared for what he saw.

It was a video of a small, darkly lit room, most likely somewhere in the English countryside (probably an abandoned factory, Mycroft mused). There was a bench-like table, which Sherlock was strapped to. He wasn't struggling, and as the camera zoomed in on his body, Mycroft could see that he wasn't hurt, excepting a red mark across his face where he had been slapped.

Sound began to play, of an unknown person in the background talking. "Hello, Mycroft! How's the British government? I hope you're doing well. By the way…I have a question for you, Myc; When you and Sherly were little boys, did you play Hide and Seek? Well, we're going to play a game like that now; only, this game is called Seek and Find." The voice seemed to dip and rise in odd places; Mycroft just knew he had heard this person before…but where? And when?

On the camera, Mycroft saw Sherlock struggle ever so slightly against his bonds. The voice began to speak again. "Seek and Find is just like Hide and Seek. I've hidden him…now it's your turn. You have to seek and find your baby brother, Mycroft." The voice suddenly turned dangerous. "But be warned; if you don't find him soon, he might not be the same as before. After all, when children are left hidden long enough, they start seeing monsters in the shadows…" With those last words, the screen went black, and the video ended.

Mycroft dialed a number and held the phone to his ear, speaking just four words.

"Get me John Watson."


	3. Play The Game

"So, are we ready to make our choice?"

Sherlock rolled his head to the right. Jim was leaning against the doorway, an overly excited look on his already creepy face.

Jim moved towards him and placed a hand on Sherlock's purple-clothed chest. Why had he worn his favorite shirt? Jim would surely ruin it. "I need your decision, dear. Because once you tell me, we can begin at once."

Jim's hand on his chest suddenly felt like lead weight. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I pick…me. I pick that you spare John and harm me."

Jim's eyes widened. "Well, well, well!" he said. "Looks like the machine has a heart after all!"

He turned and, pulling the remote out of his pocket, pressed a button. The screen on the wall, which for the entire half hour had been showing John tied to the chair, flickered off.

Jim put the remote in his back pocket, as casually as one might a cell phone. He turned to the door and let out a long, low whistle. Turning back to Sherlock, Jim gave him yet another sadistic smile. "Ready to play the game?"

…

"Okay, breathe in slowly…yes, that's good…and breathe out for me…okay, sounds good…"

"John?"

John took his stethoscope out of his ears and placed it on the table beside his patient. He looked towards the door to see Sarah standing there with his phone in her hand and an irritated look on her face. John gulped and turned to his patient, a William Sherman who was absolutely positive he had a fatal lung disease. "Sorry, Mr. Sherman…I'll be back in just a moment..."

He stepped out in the hallway and shut the door behind him. "What is it, Sarah?" he said, admittedly in a slightly annoyed voice. He was still slightly peeved at her for cancelling their date. "I'm in the middle of a consultation with a patient who may be dying of a fatal lung disease." Okay, so as a doctor John knew that it was just a common cold, but he couldn't resist the exaggeration, especially while talking to her.

In return, John got a very real glare that he was sure could have held competition with one of Sherlock's you're-an-idiot looks. "Excuse me, _Doctor _Watson, but your phone, which you left in your coat pocket by my desk, went off with a rather loud ringtone. And, as you know, my desk just happens to be in the waiting room, which, if you didn't know, is _where the patients wait_!"

John frowned. He was sure that he had set his phone on Silent. "What ringtone was it?"

Sarah spluttered audibly. "What? Why does it matter, John? This is entirely unprofessional…"

John's frown deepened. "No, Sarah, it really does matter. What. Ringtone?"

"It was _Hail To The Chief_, John. But really, it shouldn't be…"

John sighed, and quickly interrupted her. "No, Sarah, I really might have to take this call."

A shocked look appeared on her face. "John, during office hours you cannot be…"

"No, you don't understand. That's Mycroft's ringtone. He's…I can't explain it, but I really have to take this, Sarah. I'm sorry."

Sarah glared, but handed him the phone. "This better be good, John. When you're off the phone, if I don't get a _damn _good explanation you'll be out of a job faster than you can say British Government."

John took the phone from her and chuckled. "Interesting choice of words."

The sudden humor did nothing to alleviate her glare, and with a pointed look Sarah was gone.

John flipped open the phone and went to Missed Calls. Yes, it was Mycroft, all right, the fat git himself. Somehow Mycroft had gotten hold of John's phone and changed his name to Supreme Ruler Of The Universe, and for the life of him John could not figure out how to change it back.

He clicked the name and held the phone to his ear. After just a single ring Mycroft answered.

"Ah, John. I called earlier."

John smirked. "So I noticed. And almost lost me my job in the process."

John could practically picture Mycroft's face in his head; that unmoving look of calm that never wavered. "All smooth now, John. Your lady friend has just received a substantial pay raise, courtesy of the British Government." He rolled his eyes. Leave it to Mycroft to pay his boss just for a few minutes of conversation with him.

"Now, John, I must ask you immediately; when was the last time you saw Sherlock? Truthfully, now, even if he left as a result of a lover's spat."

John frowned. Even Mycroft was in on it now…when were people going to get it through their heads that he was most certainly not in a relationship with his flatmate? "Mycroft…Oh, never mind. The last time I saw him was about eight last night. And it was _not _a lover's spat-we just…disagreed about certain rules in the flat. Such as no live animals in the freezer. I mean, who in their right mind would put twelve live salamanders in the ice box?"

"Well, John, the point is not that you disagreed, more the point is that Sherlock has not appeared in any of my CCTV cameras since eight fifteen last night, when he got into an unmarked black taxi and drove towards the countryside. My initial reaction was that he was going to see Mother, but Sherlock isn't exactly a family person, so my suspicions were slightly aroused." Mycroft said dryly.

"Oh…" John said, piecing together what Mycroft was saying, "You think he was…kidnapped?"

"To be quite blunt, yes, I do." Mycroft said, still with that calm, impenetrable voice.

"Oh, God." said John. "Well, what are you doing? Why aren't you doing anything about it?"

"I am, John, I am." Mycroft said, in a voice one might use to explain something to a child. "I'm calling you."

…

An hour and a half later, much to Gregory Lestrade's surprise, John Watson was being shown into his office, along with Mycroft Holmes, the highly irritating older brother of Sherlock. Honestly, in Lestrade's mind, if he had to choose which of the Holmes brothers was more irritating, he might just pick Mycroft…and that was saying something.

"Ah, Detective Inspector." said the man himself.

"Hey, Greg." said John, an apologetic look on his face. Whatever Mycroft was here about, it obviously wasn't good.

"Hello, chaps. What can I do for you?" he said, not looking up from his paperwork, and hoping to convey extreme business through his tone of voice.

"Seeing as the clock is ticking, I shall cut straight to the point," Mycroft said, "my younger brother, Sherlock, is missing."

Lestrade still didn't look up. "So? I've known Sherlock for quite a time, Mycroft. He disappears at will, and when he doesn't want to be found…well, he won't be. You know that as well as anyone."

John coughed quietly. "Greg…we think he might've been kidnapped."

_That _got Lestrade's attention. "What?" he said sharply. "Sherlock Holmes, kidnapped?" He laughed uneasily. "You're off your rocker, mate. No one could kidnap Sherlock bloody Holmes. He's practically a one-man fighting machine, with that art of jujitsu or whatever it is he's a master at…"

"Never the less, Inspector, we have reason to believe that Sherlock has been abducted, and we wish your help-and the help of Scotland Yard-in locating him." Mycroft said in a firm voice. "Of course, the government will compensate, if it's money that will make a difference…"

Lestrade paled. He turned to John. "You're serious, then? You really think he's been…hijacked?" he asked quietly.

John gulped. "Yeah. We really do, Greg. And you're the best there is, mate. I know that if Sherlock were here, he would say that there was no one he'd rather have looking for him."

Lestrade smiled. "Get real, mate. I would be _really_ worried if Sherlock started complimenting me like that."

Mycroft coughed rather loudly. "Look, this is all very touching, but I do have work to get back to, so if I could leave this in your and John's capable hands, I should like to be off…"

John gave him a look. "Seriously, Mycroft? You're his brother, only family who cares as far as I know, and you're just going to go back to work?" He grinned. "You Holmeses are a piece of work, you know that?"

Mycroft looked at him curiously. "I suppose that was a rather pathetic attempt at an insult, John." He turned towards the door. "I shall keep in touch with you via Dr. Watson's cellular device. I do hope to have some progress within the next hour or so…" and with those last words, Mycroft Holmes was gone.

Lestrade looked at John. "He's really done it this time, hasn't he? Gone and put himself in the warpath…"

John sighed. This had been his third sigh of the day, and he suspected it wouldn't be his last. "Come on, Greg. We've got ourselves a consulting detective to find."


	4. Breaking Point

At the sound of the whistle, two large, muscular men wheeled in a medium-sized cart. Stainless steel, rubber-matted top, simple closure, no lock, two handles on the side…

Sherlock was yet again snapped out of his reverie by Jim slapping him.

"Come on, dear. Remember, try to pay attention. If you don't, well…things might not end well for John. After all, I did swear to burn the heart out of you."

Sherlock internally grimaced. Why must Jim use that phrase, he thought? It's rather irritating, and it makes no sense whatsoever…after all, Sherlock had been reliable informed that he didn't have a heart.

Jim grinned at the look on Sherlock's face. "Oh, I know what you're thinking. But it's okay, Sherly; I have it all worked out and I'll be happy to explain it to you. As I work, of course; time is ticking, and your brother is no doubt already searching and wondering what big bad Moriarty has planned for the dynamic deducing duo."

Jim opened the doors of the cart, producing a large array of shiny silver objects; knives, throwing stars, a titanium whip-Sherlock even thought he saw a hacksaw somewhere in there. "You see, Sherlock, here's the thing; you didn't have a heart. From the day you were born, you were a cold, calculating detective machine. I should know; I was watching." Jim said with a strange smile on his face. He pulled out a wickedly gleaming kitchen knife and held it up for the light to catch.

Sherlock felt a certain feeling for only the second time in his life. The first time had been Baskerville, and the feeling was that of fear.

Jim grinned at the look on his face. He took the knife and lowered it towards Sherlock's chest. "Now where were we? Oh, yes, your heart. Well, as I said, you didn't have one. You _didn't_, at that time. But that was before John Watson came along."

Jim traced the knife along the button line of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock sucked in a breath at Jim's words.

Jim smiled. "Oh, yes, Sherlock. I know all about your feelings for John. I've seen it in my magic mirror." He spoke the words as one would when reading a child a bedtime story.

He brought the knife back up and slid it under the neckline of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock shivered at the feel of the cold metal against his skin. "Now, at first you wondered, 'who is this strange army doctor that has such an impact on my nonexistent heart?' And that, my dear Sherlock, is when you got a heart."

Jim smiled. "John Watson is your heart, Sherlock. And I promised to burn the heart out of you, didn't I?"

If Sherlock was a whimpering sort of person, he would have. "You said you wouldn't hurt him. Me instead, you said, and I said yes." The words sounded childish, even to Sherlock's ears, but it didn't matter, not if it spared John.

Jim gave him a falsely comforting look. "Now, now, Sherly, don't get upset. Here's what I'm going to do. After all, there's more than one way to burn the heart out of a person."

The knife was violently yanked up, cutting through Sherlock's favorite purple shirt and sending buttons flying in all directions. Jim grabbed the edges of the now ruined shirt and pulled Sherlock up so that their noses were nearly touching.

"I will use every single weapon I have to hurt you, and you will know that you let me do this, you let me give you all this pain, for John. All this pain for your heart, Sherlock." Jim turned to the wall and clicked a button on the remote, bringing John back up on screen. "After this, you will _never _want to love anyone-or anything-because of the pain it will surely bring." He smiled, a creepy smile that made Sherlock's spine shiver, and set Sherlock back down on the table. He picked up the knife from the cart again. "This game is designed to teach you how much love can _hurt_." And on that last word, Jim drove the knife into Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock did nothing, though internally he was screaming. The wound hurt like hell, but he would not give into this plan of Jim's.

"A psychological experiment in pain? You won't be able to do anything to me; it's just transport." Sherlock stated smugly, glad to have outsmarted his enemy.

Jim, however, was not convinced. Not for one moment did the smile leave his face. "Oh, Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Don't you know? Everyone has a breaking point."

Jim leaned in until his forehead was touching Sherlock's. "Even you."

…

"It's a pickle factory."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, it's a pickle factory. Sherlock would be so proud."

John looked incredulously at Lestrade. "He's holding him in a damn _pickle factory_? Right on the edge of London? Greg, this is…it's just too easy."

Lestrade sighed. "Never the less, John, it's something to go on." He turned to the phone on his desk and punched in a number. "Get me Donovan, Anderson, and anyone experienced with search and rescue_._" He put down the phone and looked at John, who was currently staring quite determinedly at the map on the wall.

"John."

"What?"

Lestrade grabbed John's arm. John finally looked at him. Distress was written all over his face. "It's too easy, Greg. It's Moriarty we're dealing with, I'm sure of it, and he never makes it this easy."

Lestrade looked John right in the eye. "John, we will find Sherlock. We _will _find him. You just gotta believe it, mate. Alright?"

John sat for a moment, staring at the floor. Then, he looked up at Lestrade. The old fire was gleaming in his eyes. "Yes, I will. No matter what it takes, I'm going to find him, Greg." His eyes slid past the inspector, staring into nothing. His next sentence was spoken quietly, not intended to be heard. "If we don't, I don't know what I'll do."


	5. Not Done Yet

Sherlock moaned quietly. Things were not going according to plan.

Jim had left just moments ago, probably to sharpen his knives or something equally devious.

For once in his life, Sherlock had no idea of what to do.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard footsteps approaching. "In here, boys!" a familiar voice said.

In came Jim Moriarty, accompanied by the same two muscular men who had wheeled in the cart earlier. Both had almost identical scowls that made them look slightly constipated. Sherlock's mood lightened. He could do this. He would withstand any pain Jim gave him, and no matter what he _would _make it home to John.

"Alright, boys, turn him over." Jim said, a devious smile on his face. "But, carefully, now! He's a feisty one; he bites and scratches!"

The two men undid the restraints on the table and flipped Sherlock over, barely breaking a sweat.

"I must admit, I'm extremely fascinated by the fact that these friends of yours can figure out how to open handcuffs without an axe." Sherlock said coldly. "When did you start training gorillas, Jim?"

Sherlock was rewarded for his sarcastic wit by a heavy punch to the gut.

Two ribs cracked, possibly broken, could have internal bleeding, but unlikely…

Another slap. "Come _on_, Sherly." Jim said, acting impatient. "You said you'd pay attention. You _promised_." He stuck out his lower lip like a child in a pout.

"Off with the shirt, boys," said Jim, obviously enjoying having Sherlock in his power very much, "but, try not to damage him anymore than you already have. That pleasure is for me and me alone." He smiled angelically.

Sherlock felt hands on his back, ripping at his previously destroyed purple shirt. He sighed. "Jim, couldn't you have been a bit more careful? This was Dolce & Gabbana."

Jim shrugged. "Sorry, Sherly. It's more fun this way!"

The men locked Sherlock back into his restraints. He heard Jim moving around behind him, and heard him pick something up. Lightweight, long, slim, cool metal composure…

Jim smiled. "Let's start with the whip, shall we?"

After the first five lashes, Sherlock told himself he couldn't feel anything. After twenty, he began to twinge a bit. At fifty, he was trying his best to hold it together. At seventy-five, he tried to think of John (John, John…where are you, John? Why aren't you here to save me?). At one hundred, he was numb.

At one hundred and five, Jim stopped. Sherlock was a mess-he could feel the blood running from his mangled back to his chest. His cheek was pressed against the cold metal of the table. Jim leaned down until he was eye to eye with Sherlock.

"Sherly." Jim said. "Sherly, Sherly, Sherlock Holmes. We will find your breaking point yet."

Sherlock mumbled something.

Jim cocked his head. "What was that, honey? Did the great Sherlock Holmes have something to say?"

Sherlock lifted his head up as far as it would go and spat a mouthful of blood at his captor. "When Hell freezes over."

Jim frowned. "Not very nice today, are we?" He smiled. "Turn him on his back, boys. We're not done yet."

….

"Are you sure this is the place?"

Lestrade frowned. "Yeah, why?"

John shrugged. "I don't know, it just doesn't seem very…Moriarty-ish. I mean, it has a giant dancing pickle sign on the side, and the door is wide open."

"John. Let's just see if Sherlock's here. If he is, that's absolutely brilliant, isn't it? If he's not, well, we can go back and check again."

The big set of double doors to the factory were hanging off their hinges. The entire place looked deserted, but to John's keen military eyes, it looked like a haven for anything dangerous.

"Alright." John said. He crept towards the door, Lestrade just behind him. The rest of their team, including (unfortunately for Sherlock, thought John) Donovan and Anderson, stood some distance away. The two irritating twits had their phones out under the pretense of waiting to see if an ambulance was needed, but John knew they just wanted to see if they could catch a picture of Sherlock needing to be rescued. "Like a princess in her fairytale tower" were the words that John had caught Anderson saying to Sally under his breath. It took all John's willpower not to strangle the man right there in front of half of Scotland Yard.

John peeked through the door. A wide expanse of dusty floor provided the interior of the factory. A set of stairs led up the wall and disappeared behind an ancient cooling system mounted above a rather large vat. As John carefully walked in, mindful of any booby traps, the floor creaked with every step. The factory was very old, that much was obvious, and they would have to be careful not to fall through those stairs, thought John.

John tiptoed to the bottom of the stairs, followed closely by Lestrade. He turned to him. "Should be okay, just watch me and step where I step…"

That was when he heard the scream.


	6. Nobody Cares

"There, there, Sherly," said Jim, "It's okay! Don't scream so loudly next time, though…think you might have burst my eardrums."

Sherlock rolled his head to the side, panting. His hand twitched painfully; Jim's muscle minions had broken three of the fingers on his right hand. He had told himself when he had deduced what they were trying to do that he would not scream, no matter the pain. But he had broken that promise to himself. It wasn't just the physical pain of the breaks, either; when Sherlock assessed the damage, he determined that he might not ever be able to play the violin again. This was definitely Jim's signature style; physical and psychological pain combined.

Jim leaned in towards him. "How does it feel, Sherlock? How does it feel to know that you will never get to play your music again?"

Sherlock's captor picked up a slim silver knife from the cart and turned back towards him. He leaned over the pale ivory skin and Sherlock felt a white-hot pain as the sadistic Moriarty carved a single word into the center of his chest. His head lolled to the side, and a single tear seared a path down the side of his face. He would not break. He would not. He would stay here for John. All for John.

Jim stood back up and admired his handiwork. "I do love a good brand."

Sherlock finally spoke, in a hoarse voice. "Mycroft will come for me and John…he will kill you."

Jim executed a sudden turn and the left side of Sherlock's face exploded in pain. Jim had cut a single red line along his cheek.

The only thing Sherlock could think of was John's line about his cheekbones and turned-up collar.

Jim leaned in towards Sherlock's face. "Haven't you deduced it yet? _John isn't here with you_." he hissed. "If you had chosen for me to hurt John when he appeared on the screen, you would have been fine, and so would he. But no, for once you used that non-existent heart, and so the pain was all yours. Don't you remember what your brother told you? Caring isn't an advantage. This was just a game to demonstrate that!"

This new information was quite a shock to Sherlock, a feeling that he definitely wasn't used to. John wasn't here? But then…John would rescue him! "John…will come…for me, then. He knows…where…I am."

Jim laughed. "He won't come, Sherlock. He doesn't care about you, not one bit. You're just a convenient fellow to take advantage of. Why, I bet your brother pays him to stay with you."

He stayed leaned over Sherlock, and used his thumb to rub the cut he had just made, causing Sherlock to wince in pain. "Just remember this, Sherlock; No one cares. Not John, not Mycroft, not Lestrade…not even your dear old landlady, Mrs. Hudson. _Nobody cares about you_."

With his other hand, he carefully slid the bloodied knife into Sherlock's far right side. Not enough to kill, determined Sherlock with what little portion of his mind was still functioning, but enough to cause him more pain than he already had.

"You…are…not…right…" Sherlock gasped out through the pain. "John…cares…about…me. He's loyal…he will…come…" his head slumped onto his left shoulder.

Jim smiled. "Oh, no, Sherly. He won't. You will be here forever. With me. And the pain."

Jim abruptly stood up at the sound of a door creaking open somewhere in the distance. "Well, well!" he said to his minions, "Looks like we have company." He smiled. "That was quick, for Mycroft."

Jim snapped his fingers, and the minions took the cart and exited the room.

Jim headed out and stopped at the doorway. "Be right back, honey. Just gotta take care of some pesky little wanna-be policemen." He winked. "Don't go anywhere!" And Jim was gone.

Through his pain induced haze, Sherlock knew that he had to do something. It was John outside, he was sure of it. Moriarty couldn't convince him that John wouldn't come. John would come, whether because he cared about Sherlock or because Mycroft paid him to. He would have to revisit the idea that nobody liked him later, and so he pinned it up in the attic of his mind palace (that was where he kept emotions and ridiculous nonsense like that) and focused on the more pressing issue; how to escape.

Looking out the window and up at the ceiling rafters above him, Sherlock determined three things. One, he was on the third floor of a deserted factory. Two, said deserted factory was extremely old. Three, the age meant that the wood was rotted, and if he could just apply enough pressure, he would collapse the floor and fall to the factory doors, which was directly below his room due to the winding staircase shown outside the door.

After all, Sherlock Holmes wasn't a consulting detective for nothing.

….

"What the bloody hell was that?!" said Lestrade.

"Use your brains, Lestrade," said John, tense and crabby because of the situation. "it was someone screaming. Most likely Sherlock."

Lestrade gulped, and Sally Donovan appeared at the door.

"Sir, we heard the scream." she whispered, "Do you need more backup?"

"Yes, get me two armed snipers around each side of the factory and three backup shooters."

"Yes, sir." she said, and backed away to get them.

"All we can do now is wait until she gets them." said Lestrade. "Oh, God, I hope we're not too late."


	7. You Fix Everything

Sherlock lifted himself up from the table, all his injuries screaming in protest. He slammed back down and yelled hoarsely as his mangled back connected with the table, but continued to go up and down. He heard wood breaking, and let out a breath he had been holding. He kept it up at a moderate pace despite the pain. He would break through eventually, that he was sure of. He just hoped it was in time to save John.

…

"Where do you think he is, Greg?" asked John.

"Well," said Lestrade, taking a moment to use his own deduction skills, "I'm no Sherlock Holmes, but I think the scream came from right above us, actually." He pointed to the rafters above their heads.

As John looked up, a movement caught his eye towards the other end of the factory. A bulky, muscular sniper was focusing the eyepiece on a gun. The gun was aimed at him and Lestrade.

"Greg, get DOWN!" yelled John, leaving all attempts to be cautious and quiet behind. He tackled the inspector to the ground in front of them just as a shot rang out. John rolled over, pulled his gun from his belt, and carefully fired at the sniper. He fell over, dead.

Lestrade sat up, face pale. "Thanks, John." he said shakily. "I could have died."

"Anytime, Greg." said John. "Now, where's Sherlock?"

It was at that moment that the ceiling collapsed behind them. John caught a glimpse of all-too-pale skin, stark bones, and scarlet blood before a piece of wood hit him on the head and the world turned black.

…

"John?"

John rolled over. Why was Sherlock waking him up so early? And why did his head hurt so bad?

"John. John, wake up. We have to find Sherlock…he's here somewhere, in the rubble. John!"

John opened his eyes to see Lestrade shaking him, eyes blown wide. He had a small cut on his forehead, but looked otherwise unharmed. John could feel a rather large bump developing on his own head, and he finally remember where he was and why.

"Oh, God, oh, Sherlock, Greg, where the hell is he?!" John said all in one gasped breath. The three shooters who had accompanied them were searching through the rubble nearby. John stood shakily and staggered over to help. He shifted some wood near the edge, Lestrade helping, when suddenly a pale, shaking hand erupted from the center of the pile.

"Sherlock!" screamed John, seeing a glimpse of his friend for the first time. They all began to dig furiously, John frantically worrying that they might be too late, but in moments had uncovered the detective.

He did not look at all like himself, was John's first thought. His shirt had been taken off, leaving him only in trousers, no shoes. His skin was too pale, splattered with blood, scarlet against the stark white, entire body covered with bit of rock and wood, some embedded into him. His torso was covered with a gigantic purple-yellow bruise, some ribs most likely broken, with some small cuts across them forming a word John couldn't quite make out. He had a shallow stab wound to his side, and a similar one on his shoulder. A long cut had been made on his face, along his perfect cheekbones, and three of his long, graceful fingers had been brutally broken. John stepped forward to help the men free him from the restraints…restraints?

John thought he was going to be sick. "Moriarty…" he muttered. "I will find you, Moriarty, you sick bastard! I will find you and cut off all your limbs and kill you!" he screamed.

"John. John, calm down." said Lestrade. "When we find him, I promise you that you will have first shot at the bastard, with Mycroft and I" he said in a carefully controlled voice, "but for now we have to help Sherlock."

The men finally got the barely conscious detective out of the restraints and pulled him to his feet. John rushed forward to support his friend. "It's okay, Sherlock, I got you, I'll never let you go again, it's okay…" he muttered words of support for his injured friend, grasping his back.

Sherlock gasped in pain and stiffened his back. John pulled away and, turning to look at what had caused his friend's pained moan, swallowed a gasp at what he saw.

Sherlock's back had been whipped repeatedly, and was mangled. Blood still ran in rivulets from the wound.

Lestrade looked shocked. "We have to get him to a hospital…" he whispered.

Sherlock's eyes went wide. "NO! No hospitals. He'll take me again. He'll kill you. He'll kill you all!" he yelled hoarsely.

John grabbed Sherlock's good hand gently. "Sherlock, you need medical attention. I'll be right by your side the whole time…"

Sherlock was deathly white. "John. You're a doctor-you can patch me up. Just, no hospitals. Please, John. Please."

It was the please that got John. Sherlock never begged, and he almost certainly never said please.

John wasn't sure what to do.

Lestrade stepped in. "How about this," he said, "We can take him out on the stretcher and put him in the back of one of the cabs that we took here. Then you can take him home and fix him up." He smiled. "We can call it The Personal Home Ambulance Of Sherlock Holmes."

John threw his hands up in the air. "Okay, fine!" he said. "But I'm combing you over very thoroughly, Sherlock. There's some things that I can't fix."

Sherlock, through all his pain, somehow smiled at his blogger. "John," he said, quietly, "you fix everything."

And for once, Sherlock Holmes said exactly the right thing.


	8. Not A Freak To Me

John knocked firmly on the door of 221B, supporting Sherlock as best he could. Lestrade and the others had gone back to Scotland Yard quite quickly after dropping them off in order to meet with Mycroft about finding Moriarty and his cronies, who had escaped. John was more than a bit disgruntled; they could have at least stuck around to help him get Sherlock up the stairs. The man had been tortured, for heaven's sake.

The door suddenly opened, and Mrs. Hudson appeared. "Why, hello, John…" she trailed off as she got a good look at the consulting detective that he was supporting. "Oh my word! Oh my goodness gracious!" she exclaimed, a horrid look on her face. "John, should I call an ambulance?"

John shook his head and began to walk his friend inside. "No, Mrs. Hudson, Greg and I both agreed it would be better for his psychological recovery to treat him here."

She followed the two to the foot of the stairs, mumbling worriedly and wringing her hands.

John turned, Sherlock's head lolling onto his shoulder. "Really, Mrs. Hudson, he'll be fine." He said. "I just need to get him upstairs to peace and quiet so I can examine him and make sure he doesn't need the hospital, so if you'll excuse us…"

She backed towards the door of her own flat. "Oh, of course, dearie." She said gently. "I'll bring up a little something to tempt his appetite when you're done, shall I?"

John nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson, you're a gem."

She entered her flat, closing the door quietly behind her. Sherlock let out an almost inaudible moan. "John, can we move along, please?" he wheezed. "My shoulder is hurting rather badly now."

"Yes, let's get you up." John supported his friend as they slowly but surely mounted the stairs. He twisted his arm around Sherlock and opened the door.

As soon as they were inside, John helped Sherlock to the kitchen, where he sat him in a chair and ran upstairs to get his doctor bag. As he was looking for his extra bottle of peroxide (Sherlock had used his original bottle for some experiment of his and hadn't thought to tell John, the inconsiderate git), he heard a loud thump and a groan from downstairs.

John took the stairs two at a time, doctor bag in hand, terrified of what he might find.

When he entered the kitchen, he found Sherlock face-down on the floor, trying in vain to get up. He rushed forward and helped his friend back up into the chair. "There we go, you're all right, you're going to be fine, love…" Love? John raised his eyebrows at himself. Where had that come from?

Sherlock breathed heavily. "Thank you, John." He said quietly, more quietly than John had ever heard him speak before.

John put his bag down on the table. He gently stripped the shock blanket Lestrade had given them from around Sherlock's shoulders. It was caked with drying blood; that was not a good sign, John thought. So much blood….

He decided to work from the top down. First, he examined the cut on Sherlock's face. Moriarty was good, he thought begrudgingly. The cut wasn't deep enough for stitches, but it was long enough and in a bad enough place to cause a considerable amount of pain. He poured a bit of disinfectant on a cloth and gingerly dabbed at Sherlock's face. Sherlock jerked back at the sudden sting, but relaxed and gritted his teeth to allow John to clean it. Once it was sanitized, John stuck a large plaster over his cheek.

"There'll be no Mr. Mysterious Cheekbones and Collar days for you for a little while!" he said teasingly. Sherlock's body suddenly tensed up, and if John hadn't known better he would have sworn a small tear escaped Sherlock's eye.

"That's what I thought, too, when he made the cut." Sherlock said in a quiet, haunted voice. "I thought about you and what you said that one time."

John felt horrible. "Sherlock, I am so sorry." He said. "I am _so _sorry I wasn't there sooner, I'm sorry you had to go through all that horrible stuff…" his voice cracked halfway through and he felt a wetness on his face. "God, I'm so _sorry_."

Sherlock smiled faintly. "I'll get over it." he said, faking a calm voice. "After all, John, it's all just transport."

John nodded and focused on cleaning the stab wound in Sherlock's shoulder. "I know that." He said, and wrapped the arm with a large amount of gauze. "I was talking more in terms of your psychological recovery."

Sherlock, for having been kept with a madman and tortured, still was able to give John one of the scariest Sherlock glares he had ever seen. John did his best to avoid the glare by starting on Sherlock's broken fingers. "John…if you think that I'm going to go see some therapist I don't even know…"

John quickly shook his head. "Oh, no, Sherlock, no!" he said. "I think you might actually make the therapist cry." He smiled, and finished putting temporary splints on Sherlock's fingers. "I'm just saying that if you ever need to talk…I'm here. Okay?"

Sherlock scoffed. "I am not a child, John." He said haughtily, as John continued downward to look at the stab wound in his side and his broken ribs. "I am a perfectly capable adult, and I don't need _feelings_ to get in the way of my life."

John, however, didn't reply. A strange look had crossed his face, and he was staring at Sherlock's lower chest, just below his nipples. "Sherlock," he said carefully, not wanting to upset him, "What is this?"

He was pointing at the scratches just above Sherlock's stomach, forming a word that had been blurred by scarlet blood from his wounds…however, the blood was being washed away now, and John was trying to read what it said.

Sherlock did _not_ want John to see that; he himself knew exactly what Moriarty had carved just by the knife strokes. He backed his chair away quickly. "Nothing, John. Just some cuts-nothing to worry about, quite shallow, doesn't hurt at all. Now will you please get on with the stab, because that really does hurt quite a bit."

John's eyes were darkening. "Sherlock…" he warned, "Why don't you want me to see this?"

Sherlock shrugged, and immediately regretted it as his shoulder twinged. "No, it's nothing like that, John," he said, falsely reassuring him, "it's just not as serious as the ribs and the stab, is all."

John looked up at his friend with an unrecognizable look on his face. "Sherlock," he said calmly but urgently, "I need to look at those scratches. They could have gone deeper than you realized…after all, you're not a doctor."

"As good as." Sherlock muttered. He sighed. "Oh, very well, but I should warn you, John, you're not going to like it. Not at all"

John grabbed the damp cloth from the table and cleaned away the blood. He swallowed back a gasp.

There, in the exact middle of Sherlock's chest, five letters spelled out the word 'freak'.

John gently touched it with his fingertips. "Oh, Sherlock…" he said, guilt and pity in his voice.

He was surprised by a touch on his shoulder. He looked up at Sherlock. "It's not bad, John, really." He said quietly. "It doesn't bother me. It's what I am."

John shook his head sadly. "But you're not, Sherlock." He said. "You're not a freak to me, or Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft…even Sally and Anderson don't really mean it, not really."

Sherlock grinned. "I think mentioning those two might be stretching it a bit, John."

John laughed. "Yeah, maybe."

Sherlock sighed. "The point is, I'm used to it; the names and the looks. They don't bother me anymore." He smiled at John, one of his real, just-for-John smiles. "This will fade away from my mind just like the real wounds."

But it won't, Sherlock, it will always be there, John thought to himself as he cleaned the stab and wrapped Sherlock's broken ribs. It will always haunt you. It was like the war, John thought. His war wound was healed, only a scar remaining. But no matter what he did, he could never erase the screams, the nightmares, the blood. They would always be there, in the back of his mind, waiting, just waiting, to come back into focus.


	9. Always

_Sherlock opened his eyes to…darkness. It surrounded him, pressing in on him from all sides. He was chained to some kind of strong metal pole. Where was he? He couldn't remember, and for some reason, __**he couldn't deduce**__. This scared Sherlock more than anything, more than the darkness or the restraint, because without the ability to deduce he was nothing._

_Suddenly, Sherlock heard a noise; faint, quiet footsteps, off in the distance. Good, he thought, that would be John coming to get me. The footsteps got closer and closer until there was a living, breathing body standing right in front of him. Not just a body, a John body. Sherlock sighed in relief._

_"Oh, John, thank goodness." he said, relieved. "Would you please remove the restraints?"_

_John didn't move._

_"John?" Sherlock said, hesitantly. "John, I asked you to untie me. Please do so."_

_John still stood there, oddly calm. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do that."_

_"What?" Sherlock exclaimed, now confused. "John…why can't you untie me? We have to get out of here, Moriarty will be here any minute and he'll hurt us."_

_John shook his head. "No, Sherlock, he'll only hurt you."_

_Sherlock sucked in his breath. What had John said? "John…you don't understand. He's going to burn the heart out of me. We have to go!"_

_John crouched down next to the detective and began to tug at his bonds. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. John must be drugged, he thought._

_John stood up again, but when Sherlock went to stand, he found he was still tied; even tighter than before, if that was possible. He frowned. Surely this was a mistake on John's part? He must be __**very**__ drugged. "John…you haven't untied me. You've only made the bonds stronger."_

_No answer. Sherlock looked up. "John?"_

_John again shook his head at Sherlock. "No, Sherlock." he said quite calmly. "I'm not going to untie you. Nor is anyone else. Why would they?" He rolled his eyes. Sherlock had always thought John's eyes were beautiful; blue and calm, they reminded him of the ocean. But now his eyes were glowing with malice, and a frightening icy coldness had come over the warm blue._

_"No one wants to save you, Sherlock." he said simply, as if this was a fact that everyone already knew. "Why would they want to save a pain in the arse like you? No, you put everyone off, Sherlock. Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…they're just too nice to tell you. Remember Donovan and Anderson? They were right all along. Nobody likes you, Sherlock. Nobody wants to save you." He spat the last three words. "Especially not me."_

_And with that John turned and began to walk back into the darkness. Sherlock struggled against his bonds, desperately trying to wiggle free and apologize to his friend for whatever it was he had done. _

_"John!" he yelled hoarsely, "John! Come back! I'll try to be better! Please don't leave me here! Please…" he broke off as he heard footsteps returning._

_"John!" he said, "I knew you wouldn't leave me here!"_

_The voice that answered was certainly not John. "Oh, he would. They all would, Sherly. In fact, they all have."_

_Sherlock knew that this was Moriarty, yet for once his mind was too stupefied to fire a witty response._

_Jim continued. "It's just like John said, Sherlock. Nobody really likes you. Oh, sure, they __**tolerate**__ you…but they don't really like you at all. Mrs. Hudson? You're paying her rent. Lestrade? He needs you to solve his crimes when his pathetic little group of so-called policemen can't get the job done. Mycroft? Your parents would probably be very angry if they knew how little Mycroft actually cares about you."_

_Sherlock was left reeling from this input of new information. He had never thought of it like that. However, Jim had left one little loophole. "And John?" Sherlock asked. "I don't pay John to stay with me. I don't solve his crimes, and I'm certainly not related to him."_

_Jim leaned down until he was level with Sherlock's face. "Oh, I know __**you **__don't pay him," he said, an edge of malice to his voice. "But what about Mycroft?"_

_Those last four words left Sherlock absolutely stunned. No. John wouldn't, John __**couldn't **__lie about something like that, could he?_

_"Face it, Sherly. Nobody likes you. You. Are. Alone."_

….

John woke to the sound of screaming from Sherlock's room.

Not even bothering to put on clothes, for the second time that week John took the stairs two at a time. Coming to Sherlock's door, he saw that it was slightly ajar, and hoarse yells were still being emitted.

John darted through the doorway and went to his friend's bed. Sherlock was wrapped tightly in the sheets, and his eyes were blown wide. Though his shouting had stopped just moments before John walked into the room, his mouth was still open in a silent scream. He looked absolutely terrified…but of what, John wondered? It was only then that John's sleepy brain woke up and went into doctor mode. He sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed and (rather hesitantly and very carefully, because he didn't want to alarm the man) pulled the detective's upper body into his lap. He began to gently run his fingers through the wild black curls and rubbed his scalp calmingly.

"Shh, it's okay, Sherlock, you're going to be fine, I'm here, love, you're okay…"

Sherlock looked up blearily and grabbed John's unwounded shoulder. "John?" he whispered hoarsely.

John smiled. "It's okay, Sherlock, I'm here. It's okay."

Sherlock tightened his grip. "You're not going to leave this time? You're going to stay with me?"

This time? What did he mean by that? John, however, put aside those questions until morning. Right now, Sherlock just needed comfort. "Yes, Sherlock. Always."


	10. Right There With Him

Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. His door was partly ajar, weak sunlight streaming in from the windows in the living room. He was in his bed, but was halfway lying on something that was most definitely not a blanket. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he looked up to see John, having dozed off sometime in the night. His head was resting in the crook of John's arm, John's hand entangled in his messy black curls. Why was John here?

And then it all came rushing back. Moriarty, the torture, the pain, John, Lestrade, the _nightmares_…oh, God, the nightmares…

Sherlock sat up, pushing the heels of his hands into his eyelids, trying to erase the image of Jim's leering face that was seared there. He slid out of bed carefully so as not to wake John. However, instead of pulling out one of Lestrade's cold cases to work on and waiting for John to get up and make breakfast, he went to the kitchen to make some tea and let John sleep. After all, it was the least he could do after yesterday.

…

John yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He looked at his surroundings and frowned. This wasn't his room; where was he? And then he remembered; Sherlock screaming, running down the stairs, pulling his friend into his lap and carding a hand through his curls, calming him down…but where was the detective, then?

He stood up and stretched widely, gently massaging his aching shoulder muscles. He ran his right hand through his short, cropped blond hair and used the other to rub his bare stomach. Knowing Sherlock, it was up to John to make breakfast and tea, so he headed for the kitchen.

As John approached the kitchen, he heard noises that sounded almost like someone…baking? No, that couldn't be it…Sherlock must be working on one of his experiments. John chuckled. Typical Sherlock…not even a day since he'd been rescued from a horrible torture dungeon and he was already back to work.

And then John entered the kitchen and decided to go back to bed because Sherlock was sitting at the clean, experiment-and-chemical-free table with _two_ cups of tea, _two_ plates of scrambled eggs, and _two_ glasses of orange juice. This couldn't be real, and he was obviously still dreaming. He groaned and turned towards the stairs.

Sherlock frowned. What had he missed? He had the tea, the eggs (admittedly, Mrs. Hudson did have to help him after he burned the first two batches), the orange juice…he had even cleared the table of all his experiments. "John?" he said questioningly. "Where are you going?"

John turned back around and pinched himself, hard. He nodded. "Never mind. Y'know, clean table, breakfast made by Sherlock Holmes?" he grinned at the consulting detective. "I thought I was dreaming."

Sherlock glared. "Ha, ha, ha. You're hilarious, John. Now come eat before it gets cold."

John sat down at the table opposite Sherlock and began to dig in. "Mmmm, this is good." He said quietly.

"So…are we going to talk about….last night?" John asked in as normal a voice as he could manage, barely looking up from his plate.

Sherlock shrugged. "What is there to talk about, John?" he asked. "I had a nightmare, you came in to comfort me…which was completely unnecessary, I can tell how much your shoulder hurts…"

John sighed and looked Sherlock in the eye. "I'm just saying, Sherlock…if you ever need to talk about…about what you went through…I'm here, okay?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Really, John, I'm not a _child._" he said, a tone to his voice that suggested he was uncomfortable with this discussion. "I have both physically and psychologically recovered from 'what I went through', as you so unimaginatively call it. And I do _not _have any 'feelings' upon the matter whatsoever." He rose from the table and went into the living room. A few minutes later John heard the strains of a violin. They were agitated and upsetting notes, suggesting that Sherlock did, in fact, have 'feelings upon the matter'.

John sighed. Sooner or later, it was going to catch up to the man. Sherlock was going to have to face his feelings. And when he did, John was going to do his best to be right there with him.


	11. Nowhere To Be Found

John sighed. It had been a _very _long day at the surgery. By a wild coincidence the appointments for the local hypochondriac, the overprotective mother, and the absolute berk had all been scheduled on the same day. Not to mention that because of Sarah taking vacation leave early he had to work straight through his lunch break. And of course, when he got back to the flat there would be Sherlock to deal with. He had only been back a week and had already gone back to his usual actions; moping around the flat when he didn't have cases, putting on nicotine patches as often as if they were water, moaning and griping that he was bored. The only thing he hadn't done yet was play the violin because of his splinted fingers. John, admittedly, was a bit relieved he hadn't tried; Mrs. Hudson had told him all about the first two burned batches of eggs from Sherlock's breakfast, and he had a feeling that Sherlock trying to play right now would end just as badly.

John arrived at Baker Street and climbed the stairs wearily. He approached the door, pulling out his key, but surprisingly found it to be unlocked. He pushed through and stepped into the all-too-quiet flat.

"Sherlock?" he called. "Sherlock, are you in your bedroom?" he frowned when he received no answer. "Sherlock?"

And thus John conducted a full search of the whole of 221B (thinking that maybe Sherlock had passed out somewhere due to lack of sleep or pain from his injuries), punctuated with occasional swearing as he came across more of Sherlock's 'experiments' that had been forgotten, including a particularly nasty one in one of the kitchen cupboards that had grown quite a spectacular display of mold. After finishing his search in his own room (he found a number of plant cultures thriving under his bed and was definitely going to have words with the great experimenter) he concluded that Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

For the third time in so many days, John found himself taking the stairs two at a time. "Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson?" he yelled hoarsely, now very worried about the consulting detective. He got to the door and found the elderly woman standing at the foot of the stairs, at the door of her own flat.

"Whatever is the matter, John?" she asked in a concerned voice.

He took a deep breath. "When was the last time you saw Sherlock?"

She smiled. "Oh, the dear. He came down to my flat for some tea this morning after you left. He said something about going to the morgue this afternoon to see if Molly had any fingers for him. Though really, I did try to dissuade him, dear. One time finding fingers in the fridge is enough for me, thank you. However, that Molly is such a _nice _girl, I sometimes hope…"

John cut off Mrs. Hudson's rambling. "Okay, thanks, Mrs. H!" he said loudly, and reaching inside the door to grab his jacket and keys off the hook, he left the flat to go pick Sherlock up. Really, the man should have known better than to go off to the morgue-he wasn't quite recovered yet and John was afraid that the sight of those bodies might have been triggering for him.

John sighed as he hailed a cab. Sometimes Sherlock just didn't have any sense.

….

At exactly 5:02 that evening, as Greg Lestrade was pulling on his coat to head home, a knock sounded upon his office door. Damn, he thought, must be Anderson with that forensics report. Late, as usual. He couldn't stay late, not tonight; Jenny had asked him if she could come over and talk to him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to mess up with his wife this time, no sir.

"Sorry, mate. Just going home now, be a good lad and bugger off till morning, alright?" he said, not looking up from one last straightening of his desk.

"Excuse me, Gregory, but I do not intend to 'bugger off', as you so creatively put it."

Lestrade whipped around and found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes. He coughed uncomfortably and swore in his head. One did _not_ tell the British Government to bugger off. He gave the man his best fake smile.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, I thought it was someone from forensics. Always late with the reports, they are…"

"Mycroft, please. No need for formalities here." He smiled. "I've come on account of my brother."

Lestrade's fake smile dropped off completely. "What about Sherlock? He's alright, isn't he? Not gone again or something?"

Mycroft's look of complete calm didn't waver. "No, Gregory, he is fine, I assure you. Actually, I believe that at this moment he is at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, no doubt trying to obtain some kind of human organ from Miss Hooper. No, I was referring to the search for his captors."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Ah. Right. Well, we've been doing everything we can; even Donovan and Anderson have been trying to help with it. But there's only so much we can do, Mr. Holm-Mycroft, and we have been busy lately…"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Gregory, I didn't come here to listen to you make excuses. I merely meant to inform you that I have discovered two of the men who were there with Jim Moriarty during Sherlock's…ordeal, and one who was behind the scenes operating the screens and blocking my cameras."

Lestrade stood stock still, then relaxed. "Oh. Right, then. What exactly…"

Mycroft smiled grimly. "They are currently residing quite happily in a top-secret location that I simply cannot reveal the name of…such a controversial place, Carandiru."

Lestrade returned the smile rather uneasily. "Okay. Glad that's over, then. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I wasn't done, Gregory."

Lestrade sighed. "Right. Go on, then." 5: 15. He was supposed to meet Jenny at 5:30. Make it quick, Mycroft, he thought irritably.

"I will be blunt; we have no idea where to look for Jim Moriarty." Mycroft said firmly. "None whatsoever. However, if we could just have Sherlock put a little hint out there that he's recovered, we're hoping that it might draw him out into the open…"

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "Sorry, what?" he said incredulously. "Did I just hear you say that you want to use Sherlock for _bait_?" he shook his head. "Mycroft, he's your _brother_, not a fucking piece of meat!"

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, really, Gregory, don't be so dramatic." He smiled, attempting to be reassuring and miserably failing. "He will be completely safe. No harm will come to him, and he will be far out of Moriarty's reach." He narrowed his eyes. "Trust me when I say that the safety of my brother is my one main goal in this entire chain of events. Even if it means losing Moriarty…or even myself."

He smiled and clapped his hands together on his umbrella. "On a more pleasant note, Gregory, I was wondering if you might like to have dinner somewhere with me." Lestrade could have sworn he'd seen the man wink. "I should like to get to know the man who thinks so highly of my baby brother."

Lestrade shook his head ruefully and looked down at his watch again. 5:20. He was going to be late if he didn't get a move on. "Sorry, Mycroft, but I'm married."

Mycroft laughed rather unkindly. "You're going to see your estranged wife tonight at your home in hopes that she will move back in and rekindle the marriage, when in fact she's only meeting with you to tell you that she'd like a divorce because she has moved in with the P.E. teacher she was sleeping with and is pregnant with his child."

Lestrade was admittedly shocked. He ran a hand through his graying hair. "Jesus. Between you and Sherlock it's a wonder I haven't had a heart attack yet."

Mycroft opened the door to his office. "Next Tuesday, at Angelo's. I'm sure you know where it is-one of Sherlock's favorite places, though I must admit I have yet to find why…"

Mycroft's voice trailed off as he left, walking down the hallway. Lestrade grimaced and rolled his eyes. He looked a final time at his watch. It was just now 5:30; he had officially missed his date with Jenny. However, for some strange reason, Lestrade didn't give a damn about it. Whistling cheerfully, he picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. As he was waiting down below for a cab, Lestrade wondered what one wore for a date with a Holmes.


	12. Thank You Molly Hooper

"Molly."

Molly jumped and swore, dislodging the blood sample she had been working on. She whipped around to be face to face with Sherlock Holmes. "H-hello, Sherlock!" she said brightly, and winced. Ouch…that had been way too high-pitched.

Sherlock, however, showed no sign of having heard her hello. He stepped around her and began to peer into the microscope, removing entirely the blood sample that she had been trying to complete before morning.

She leaned over his shoulder and sighed. Honestly, sometimes she wondered what she saw in the man; he could be a right git sometimes. "Sherlock, I don't think…"

He cut her off viciously. "Yes, we know that you don't think, Miss Hooper. It's one of the primary reasons that you are always following me around the morgue when I'm here."

Molly shrank back. So he was in one of his moods today, then. Well, she thought to herself, if the rumors are true he has every right to be. Office gossip had told of Sherlock being rescued from horrible torture just a week ago. Whippings, knives…she shuddered. The poor man.

Sherlock turned around, having somehow detected her shiver. He smiled. "Molly. You're tired. Why don't you go home and have a nice rest, and I'll do some samples for you and lock up when I'm done." He held up a key. "Don't worry about the locking, I…ah…_retrieved_ this from one of your colleagues this morning."

Molly knew that he was using her weakness to get what he wanted, and that she should definitely be getting on him for stealing that key. But, she was so, so tired, and quite honestly a bowl of soup, a romantic comedy, and a cuddle with Toby didn't sound too bad. She knew that Sherlock could be trusted, at least with this much.

"Okay, Sherlock, I get the hint, I'll leave." She said quietly. Then, for no reason at all, and not knowing quite what she was doing, she leaned up to the tall, thin detective and gently kissed his scarred cheekbone. "Thank you."

As Molly was almost out the door she could have sworn she heard a small, quiet, un-Sherlock-like voice saying, "No. Thank you, Molly Hooper."

…

John's cab pulled up to the morgue. He eased his way out, stifling a groan as his leg twinged. It had been acting up with all this drizzly rain and bad weather they had been getting, and it seemed to be the worst today of all days.

He entered the big double doors of St. Bart's and headed down towards the morgue, whistling and swinging his flat keys around his finger. The lights were still on, the door had been unlocked; Sherlock was obviously deeply immersed in his experiment.

He pushed open the morgue doors. "Sherlock?" he shouted. "Finish up whatever body you're experimenting on and we'll go get some dinner. I thought we could go to Angelo's; I'm in the mood for pasta, though I don't know what you want…Sherlock?"

No answer.

John walked all around the morgue, looking up, down, even under the cadaver blankets to see if Sherlock was playing a prank on him (and if he was it wasn't very damn funny, thought John). However, John's suspicions grew, and they reached a peak when he had ended up back at the door and seen that Sherlock was not in the morgue, anywhere, at all.

Trying to suppress his worries, John pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock's number. It rang, and rang, and rang…and Sherlock's voicemail picked up.

"This is Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. If this is Lestrade, look in the brother's left hiking boot. If this is a client, you may contact me through my website, The Science Of Deduction. If this is Mycroft, piss off. If this is John, we need milk and mold spores. If you really think that I care about what you have to say, and you are not any of the aforementioned, please feel free to leave a message that I will certainly not bother to listen to." And then the tell-tale beep sounded.

John frowned. "Sherlock, you can't leave voice box messages like that on your phone! We are going to have words about this when you get home. And, speaking of which, where are you? I came to the morgue because Mrs. Hudson said you were here, but I can't find you anywhere. I thought we could go have dinner at Angelo's or something…give me a call. And _don't _try the I-don't-remember-your-number gag again…I had Mycroft link my number permanently into your database."

John hung up, still frowning in thought, and set his phone down on one of the mortuary tables. He knew he shouldn't be so worried; Sherlock disappeared for days on end during his regular cases, and he rarely answered his phone. Still, the events of a week ago had left him on edge.

John knew what he needed; he needed to relax, to stop babying Sherlock so much. The man would be fine without him for a couple hours, for heaven's sake. Perhaps he overestimated his importance. He picked up the phone again and dialed another number.

…...

Greg Lestrade picked up on the third ring. He had just gotten to the corner of the street adjacent to Scotland Yard and he desperately hoped this wasn't work related.

"Helloooo, Greg Lestrade speaking." He said with some trepidation.

"Alright, Greg?" Oh good, it was just John. "I wondered if you fancied going and getting a pint or two tonight?"

Lestrade grinned. "A pint or two? Honestly, after the day I've just had, I'd more like to go and get completely pissed, mate."

He could practically hear John grinning as well. "Right. See you at the pub in ten, then." And the phone clicked.

Lestrade put his phone in his pocket and turned away from the corner, towards the pub that he and John both frequented. It hadn't been a bad day, mind you, he thought to himself. It had just been one of those days that needs a good toast. Making a date with a Holmes brother and blowing off his ex-wife? Yep, this definitely deserved a good smashing, he thought with a grin.


	13. Everybody Hates You

Mycroft arrived back at the Diogenes club in a much better state of mind than when he had left. Not only had he informed Gregory of his work and plans, he had asked the man on a date. Admittedly, Mycroft didn't date much; in fact, until this point in his life, he hadn't gone on an actual date since he was fifteen, much less a date with a man. He straightened his tie and looked subconsciously around. This was going to be an interesting experience.

He made his way to his office, and, upon entering, found that someone (most likely Anthea, who always seemed to be worrying about his health, the dear thing) had placed a cup of tea and a plate of buttery toast on his desk. The toast was made just the way he liked it; cut triangular, with loads of cinnamon sugar. Munching the toast contentedly, Mycroft began to sift through the large pile of mail on his desk.

Near the top of the pile (delivered earlier that evening, possibly while he was at Scotland Yard) lay a small, rectangular package. Mycroft observed it carefully; the last package he had received had contained a rather nasty amount of earwigs. It had taken months just to get them all out of his desk. However, this one seemed to contain nothing alive; or harmful, for that matter.

He carefully slit the cardboard with his penknife and pulled out something soft carefully wrapped in scarlet red tissue paper. He ripped off the tissue paper and found himself face to face with…a simple scarf. Blue, slight wavy pattern, Hugo Boss brand…Mycroft paused and examined the myriad of stains along the length. He gulped. Blood. This was Sherlock's scarf.

A small piece of paper fluttered out of the remains of the tissue paper and onto the floor. He snatched it up and let out a cry of shock. It was Sherlock's own handwriting; shaky, though, as if he had been forced…and it was written ink as red as…blood. Oh, God. Mycroft thought he was going to be sick. It was blood. Sherlock's blood.

_Come and play with me, big brother; I'm just __**dying **__to see you again! No clues this time; last time you found me much too quickly. This time, it won't be so easy. But remember; you're running against the clock. Every hour I stay here, I get a little more cracked. By the time you find me, I may just be shattered._

_Come and play, big brother; come and play._

_-Sherlock_

Mycroft was out the door in ten seconds flat.

…..

"Hello, honey! Boy, am I glad you're awake; now we can start to play!"

Sherlock moaned and the world came into focus. Where the hell was he? And then he remembered. Molly, the morgue, the key, a hit, and his world exploding into stars. He remembered waking up drugged and something sharp against his arm and _pain, pain, pain, _and then being forced to write...something...but what was it? A letter?

"Where's…Molly, Molly…is she okay? Jim…I will kill you…if you've hurt…her." He rasped, his throat dry from lack of water. He could feel a slick wetness where his left arm met his side. Too much wet, too much blood, blood loss is bad...

Jim smiled. "Someone has a cru-ush!" he sang in an annoying sing-song voice, and then sighed. "Yes, Sherly, your girlfriend is fine."

Sherlock muttered something and Jim leaned in close. "What was that, sugar?" he asked in a honey-coated voice.

"Not my girlfriend…" he muttered again.

Jim nodded sagely. "Oh, yes, of course not. I'm forgetting now; you have no friends. Isn't that right, Sherlock? Isn't it?"

Sherlock stared up at the man and didn't respond.

Jim's face twisted. "ANSWER ME!" he screamed, and he slapped Sherlock's scarred cheek, opening the cut again.

Sherlock's head reared back and hit the bedstead of the bed he was chained to. Blood dribbled down his cheek onto his perfect pale lips, a streak of scarlet against the stark white of his skin. "No….I have…John, and Mycroft and…" he broke off, coughing. "Lestrade…Mrs. Hudson…"

He looked up at the criminal. "I have friends…you cannot fool…a detective. Not that easily." He coughed again. "You will never break me, Jim."

Jim leaned in to Sherlock's face. "That's what you think, Sherly. But I know; I know."

He reached down and pressed a button on the dreaded remote, which was lying on the bed beside Sherlock's legs. Sherlock frowned; hadn't he had trousers on in the morgue? Now, he was wearing only a pair of black silk boxers. It didn't make sense. But then he was distracted by a figure appearing on screen, a person walking out of the Tesco near Baker Street with a red dot flying across their forehead.

It was John, and this time Sherlock just knew that he was real. This wasn't like last time. No, this was the real deal. And if he didn't do whatever Jim wanted, all his friends would die; for real, this time.

Sherlock gulped. "No. Jim, don't do this. Just…you cannot do this."

Jim's hand was now rubbing across his emaciated ribs. "Say it, then." He looked Sherlock in the eye. " Say that you have no friends, or I swear I will ."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I have no friends. I am a psychopath. Nobody likes me, and everybody hates me." A single tear slipped down from his closed eyelid.

Jim laughed maliciously. "That's right, Sherlock. Every single human being on the planet; _everybody _hates you, and you will _never, _ever have anyone who loves you."


	14. Not Anything To Worry About

Greg leaned on John's shoulder as they stumbled drunkenly from the pub.

"Ur a reeeeeelly grate frend, John!" Greg slurred as John threw up his hand carelessly for a cab.

"Naaaw, I just don't wantchoo to wake up a' Scotland Yeeeard with a hangover toromo-tomromo-tormoro-when you gotta go to work agin!" John shouted, much too loudly.

Greg let out an equally loud cheer and the two continued to stagger along until they hailed a cab to drive them home, singing nursery rhymes and yelling drunkenly all the way.

…

John opened his eyes to a splitting headache.

He moaned and sat up carefully in his…no, not his bed…he had fallen asleep on the stairs up to his room. He had no memory of last night, apart from a few (no, more than that, judging by his current migraine) drinks, and a vague rendition of Mary Had A Little Lamb running through his head.

He made his way to the bathroom to find some aspirin for his pounding head. After swallowing them dry, he headed to the kitchen, now rather famished and hoping for a piece of toast. Thank goodness today was his off day from the clinic.

After a simple breakfast of tea and slightly burned toast (the toaster had never been the same since Sherlock had put that jellied eel in the crumbs tray), he headed out to the Tesco to, yet again, buy milk. Sometimes it seemed like that was all he ever did; buy milk, help Sherlock, buy milk, help Sherlock…a vicious cycle.

A half an hour later (having safely gotten past the chip and pin machines without a row), John was outside the store and calling a cab when, for some strange reason, a red laser dot appeared on his forehead. He frowned and turned around slowly, but the dot stayed with him. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

John shrugged and got into the cab that had just pulled up for him. Probably just a freak of nature, he thought. Not anything to worry about, at any rate.

John arrived home and, after he had put away the milk, found himself sitting in the living room, staring blankly at the wall. Sherlock was still sleeping, oddly enough; he knew this because if Sherlock was in the flat and not making any noise, he had to be sleeping. Sherlock was quite fond of noise, John had learned that rather quickly.

Then John frowned. A vague sense of forgetfulness had entered his mind. Why did he feel like something wasn't right? Then, it all came rushing back. The morgue, Sherlock gone, calling Greg out for a pint so that he didn't feel like a helpless loser. He sighed. He knew that Sherlock was a grown man, knew that he sometimes left for days on cases and didn't come back until they were fully solved, but he wished that once in a while Sherlock would let him know when he was going away for a while.

…...

Greg woke up to someone hitting him violently in the head with a not-so-soft pillow.

"Wha…?" he broke off his question as he sat up and was assaulted again by none other than his estranged wife.

"You bastard!" she screamed, hitting him again and again. "You stood me up last night, here, at your own house, and went to the bar with some _guy_! You utter wanker!" she continued the torrent of abuse, occasionally punctuated with whacks from the (now quite limp) pillow.

Greg ran across the room, dodging a cheap vase and a metal pan as he made for the bathroom to find some aspirin, Jenny following him the whole way, still screaming abuse. He ducked as a bottle of aftershave zoomed over his head.

He pulled on a wrinkled pair of trousers and a shirt from the laundry hamper, narrowly avoiding an overgrown spider plant that met it's death against the opposite wall, splattering dirt all over the floor. Grabbing a banana from the kitchen, he pulled his phone from the charger as a book about plankton that he had never read went sailing across the stove. He made for the door of the flat. Jenny furiously followed him, still armed with the pillow, now leaving a trail of feathers in her wake, and a rather nasty looking pair of rusty meat scissors. Hailing a cab, Greg turned to Jenny, who had stopped and was holding the scissors aloft, looking like a crazed serial killer.

"Jenny…" Greg started, carefully trying to explain.

He never got to finish as the scissors flew straight at his forehead.

Thankfully, he thought as he dove into the cab and told the driver to _step on it for God's sake_, the scissors were rather dull and only left a small, jagged cut along the side of his face. He daubed it with his handkerchief and ate the banana thoughtfully.

The driver looked at him sympathetically in the mirror. "Got in a little domestic with the wife, mate?"

Greg sighed. "She shagged another bloke behind my back and threw a pair of meat scissors at my forehead."

He nodded. "Been there, mate. Well, not with the scissors, but definitely the shagging."

Five minutes later Greg was at Scotland Yard, half an hour late, with a splitting headache and a strong desire to call in sick.

He staggered towards his office. Sally was near the door. She looked concernedly at him. "Sir, are you all right? You look a bit pale."

He waved her off and opened the door to his office. He darted in, trying to ward off questions, and slammed the door shut. Still facing the door, he breathed a sigh of relief…and turned around to see Mycroft Holmes sitting in his desk chair.

Mycroft looked up and smiled in his usual calm, controlled manner. "Ah, Gregory. Good morning."

Greg groaned. "This is a nightmare."

Mycroft frowned. "It's a bit early in the morning for insults, wouldn't you say?"

Greg glared. "Just say what you have to say and get out, and then I need to get some aspirin."

Mycroft gave him a knowing look. "One too many pints with John, I assume?"

Greg groaned, yet again. "You have no idea."

He turned and poured himself a cup of coffee. "So why are you here?"

"Today in the mail I received a rather…ah…interesting parcel." He gestured to a small, brown box sitting on Greg's desk. It had been previously opened, and a small bit of what looked like blue cloth was peeking out of the edge.

Greg walked forward and pulled at the cloth. He found himself staring at Sherlock's favorite blue scarf, the one the consulting detective never went anywhere without. It was sporadically dotted with droplets of scarlet blood, presumably from the man himself.

Greg gulped. "Is this from when Sherlock was…y'know…tortured?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft shook his head gravely. "No, Gregory. He had me launder it for him after the incident. I gave it to him precisely two days ago when I visited Baker Street."

He looked towards the window. "He's still out there, Inspector. And wherever he is, Sherlock is as well."


	15. You Are Alone

_Sherlock felt someone shaking him awake. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!"_

_He opened his eyes to see John standing over him, looking down at him with wide eyes._

_"Sherlock, I'm here to rescue you!" he said, untying Sherlock from the bed. "Come on, let's get out of this place!"_

_"John…" Sherlock whispered, overcome with a sudden feeling of love; something he didn't have very often. "I knew you would come. I knew it."_

_John leaned down towards him, but just as their lips were about to meet a shot sounded and John fell to the floor, dead, shot through the heart._

_"JOHN! No! No!"_

_And then Jim Moriarty was there, right above him, standing over John's rapidly cooling body. "He's dead, Sherlock. He's dead. The only friend you ever had just died because of you. All because of you."_

_Suddenly, the room was filled with bodies littering the floor. Sherlock struggled to sit up and see them. Mrs. Hudson…Lestrade…Mycroft …Molly…even Donovan and Anderson…all dead. Because of him._

Sherlock woke up screaming.

"There, there, Sherlock." said Jim, standing over him and looking down at his face in mock concern. "You're fine. Just nightmares, I'm sure."

He sat down next to the sweating consulting detective. "Okay, honey," he said cheerfully, "time for your morning testaments. Ready?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyes still closed, and shook his head. Something sharp and cool came to rest against his throat, digging in and leaving a thin line of blood there.

"Come on, Sherly, I don't want to have to make you bleed more than that." Jim said, pouting. "It makes things so _messy_, and I do hate cleaning up."

Sherlock lay perfectly still and said nothing. Jim picked up one of Sherlock's thin, long arms and held it carefully, studying it.

In one violent motion, Jim took the knife and slashed a thin red line down Sherlock's inner arm.

Sherlock couldn't help himself; he cried out in pain as the blood began to flow.

"Now, Sherlock." He said calmly. "_Say it_."

Sherlock gave in, speaking in a monotone voice. "John hates me. Lestrade hates me. Mrs. Hudson hates me. Mycroft hates me. I am a psychopath, and I am alone."

Moriarty frowned. "Why, Sherlock; this just isn't any fun." He spread his arms. "I can't get into it if you don't really _mean_ it." he hissed.

He walked around to the other side of Sherlock's bed and looked out the window there. "Let me tell you a little secret that I think will help. Of course, you won't believe me. Not at first. But don't worry, I have evidence that even you can't deny."

He turned back to Sherlock. "_Mycroft_ gave you to me. He's the reason why you're here, Sherlock. He brought you to me. And not for money, mind you; he just knows how much everyone hates you and tried to do them all a favor."

Sherlock laughed uneasily. "You're wrong. Nice try, Jim, but I am not as stupid as you assume I am. My brother would not give me up that easily."

Jim raised his eyebrows. "Oh, no?" he grinned. "Take a peek at this, Sherly."

He pressed a button on the remote and Mycroft appeared on the screen. Anthea was standing nearby, texting, as always. A man, obviously a secret agent, entered the room and saluted Mycroft.

_"Have you delivered him?"_

_"Yes, Mr. Holmes. He's in their hands now."_

_"Good." _Mycroft turned to Anthea. _"Hopefully when he comes back he will not be the same as before." _He smiled grimly. _"If he is, we shall just have to take drastic measures to ensure he will not stay that way."_

_"Very good, sir."_

The tape ended with a whirr and a click.

"I told you so, I told you so!" Jim said in a singsong voice as he pressed a few buttons on the remote. Sherlock's mouth was hanging open, and for the first time in his life he was completely dumbfounded. "Now do you believe me, honey?"

He leaned in close. "I want to hear you say it, Sherlock." He grinned. "I want to hear it again, like you mean it."

Sherlock's eyes closed. Silent tears leaked out beneath the shuttered lids, delicately clinging to the long, dark lashes like raindrops. He spoke quietly, his voice stuttering slightly on the low, hateful words. "John hates me. Mrs. Hudson hates me. Lestrade hates me. Mycroft hates me." His voice broke at Mycroft's name. He took a breath and continued. "Everyone hates me. I am a psychopath."

"I am alone."

….

"Excuse me, sir…"

Mycroft looked up from his desk, irritated. "Oh, what is it _now, _Anthea? Can't you see I'm busy?" he snapped, quite out of character. Anthea looked her boss up and down. He looked absolutely _awful, _she thought. His skin was paler than she'd ever seen it. His tie was undone, hanging down the front of his wrinkled white shirt, which had the top two buttons undone. He had been going through the camera footage of Sherlock and trying to find clues for twelve hours; it was now three in the morning.

Mycroft let out a long sigh. "I'm sorry, my dear. I am just under pressure here, and reacting as such."

Anthea looked at him sympathetically. "I understand, sir. I just wanted to let you know that I have three of the four tapes you ordered."

Mycroft frowned. "Only three? Which was missing?"

Anthea gulped. "The tape of the conversation we had after you sent your brother to rehabilitation a few years ago, sir. I'm sorry, I don't know how it happened."

Mycroft waved it away. "It's fine. That particular one was minor. I only ordered it to remind myself that I rescued my brother once…I suppose I just wanted to give myself hope that I could do it again."

He ran a hand through his already disheveled hair and sighed raggedly. "I only hope that I'm not too late this time."


	16. Work Can Wait

Greg Lestrade woke up to find a dozen text messages from John Watson…all asking if he had seen Sherlock. He gulped. They hadn't told John yet about Sherlock's second disappearance. He needed to talk to Mycroft, see if they had found anything to go on. It might help ease John's worries about the man.

He stood up and stretched, looking around his small flat. It had gotten fairly messy in the short time he had been there; empty takeout containers, old books, maps, random junk from his and Jenny's old house…there was even a tipped-over houseplant in the corner. Home sweet home, Greg thought cheerily.

His good mood lasted for about five seconds. Because in five seconds he crossed the bedroom and went out into the living room to find Mycroft Holmes sitting on his couch amid the bachelor pad mess, setting his watch by the TV that was playing and watching the news.

"Good morning, Gregory." Mycroft turned off the TV and turned to Greg…only to be completely stunned. The inspector was wearing a pair of tight black pants and no shirt. His hair stuck up on one side from where it had creased the pillow, and his eyes were sleepy.

Greg walked towards him and plopped down next to Mycroft on the couch. "H'lo. G'morning. Whatever it is you geniuses say at this ungodly hour of the day."

Mycroft kept his ever-present look of unshakeable calm. Inside, his mind was going a mile a minute. Here was the man of his dreams, spread out nearly naked on a couch in front of him.

Greg sat up. "Mycroft? You okay? You're kind of spacing out there…"

Mycroft shook his head. "Yes, sorry. I'm fine, perfectly fine. Just a bit…distracted this morning is all."

Greg grinned. "Distracted by what?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Why Gregory, if I didn't know better I would say that you are attempting to hit on me!" he exclaimed teasingly.

Greg leaned in towards the elder Holmes. "What if I am?" he asked in a low voice.

The moment that Greg Lestrade stood up, half-naked, and walked back towards his bedroom was the moment that Mycroft decided that maybe, just maybe, his government work could wait for a little while.

…

Sherlock opened his eyes to see Moriarty standing in the doorway of his room, watching him. He cursed himself for showing the man he was awake, but he couldn't do anything about it now. Jim raised his eyebrows and waited as Sherlock spoke.

"Everyone hates me. I am a psychopath. I am alone."

Jim nodded happily. "Yes, Sherlock. Good job, honey! You've finally learned the truth of things."

Jim walked over to his bedside, holding something behind his back. "I brought you a little present, since you've been so _good_ lately!" he said ecstatically. He held up a syringe of morphine. Sherlock struggled against his bonds as Jim silently slipped the needle into the crook of his arms. As he pushed the plunger and released the drugs into Sherlock's body, Sherlock gradually stopped moving. He sunk deep, deep down into the blissful, happy oblivion, the place he loved to be, the place he could only get to with drugs or work or…or John, he suddenly realized.

Jim laughed softly. "Oh, my pet. You missed the drugs, didn't you? While you were with John. You missed the highs, you missed the _feeling_ it gave you." He grinned down at Sherlock. "The great Sherlock Holmes, undone by something as simple as a needle."

Jim walked out the door. "Catch you later, Sherly!" he called after him.

Sherlock arched his back as the drug coursed through his system. He _had_ missed it, it was true. But he had John and work at that point, and those put together were enough for him to resist the call of illegal hallucinogens.

Through his drug-induced haze, Sherlock thought about John. The smell of John in the mornings, at 2 AM when Sherlock would drag him out of bed for a case. His jumpers, strewn messily across the living room with old takeout containers and their laptops. John was like a drug, Sherlock mused. He was better than morphine, than cocaine, than anything he had ever taken. When John was there, Sherlock felt so good, so amazing…so _loved. _

_But he doesn't really love you, _said the voice of the morphine in his system. _He's just using you. Mycroft probably pays him to stay with you. _The voice laughed coldly. _You're not loved. No one loves you, Sherlock Holmes. __**No one**__._

…

Greg woke up to sunlight streaming in through a nearby window. He looked at the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly noon; thank god it was his day off, or he would probably be hauled into the superintendant's office for being late so often, as he had been in these last few crazy days.

He rolled over, intending to get up and make some coffee, and found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes. No, scratch that; a _naked _Mycroft Holmes, in _Greg's _bed, staring at Greg's face, eyes wide open.

"And a _second_ good morning to you, Gregory." Mycroft said politely, and he leaned over and kissed Greg full on the mouth. Greg's eyes widened, but he warmed quickly, and fell right back into the sheets with the man.

"You do realize that while we're lying here in bed snogging each other, your brother is somewhere being tortured by a madman, right?" Greg said seriously.

"Yes." Mycroft said gravely. "I realize that perfectly well, Gregory. My laptop is over there on that…thing…" he sat up and pointed to a side table that had been overturned and was now home to several teetering piles of books and a rather ferocious venus flytrap of Jenny's. The laptop was sitting precariously on one of the piles of books, processing some kind of map.

"So what's it doing, then?" Greg asked curiously as Mycroft burrowed back into the sheets.

Mycroft peered out from the lump of blankets. "It is tracking any device, car, or portable object that emits a certain digital pattern that may have had contact with Sherlock. It should only take a few more hours, and then we will have results to work with to find my brother's current location."

Greg raised his eyebrows. "A couple hours, eh? So what are you going to do to occupy all that time, Mr. British Government?"

Mycroft looked intensely at the inspector. "I was hoping you could help me with that, Gregory." He said in a low, desirous voice.

Greg gulped. "Right. I think I might be able to…"


	17. Whatever It Takes

By now, John was panicking.

Greg wasn't returning his calls. Neither was Mycroft. He had given up on trying to reach Sherlock hours ago; it wasn't connecting. He had texted all three men several times, but to no avail.

So, it was understandable that, at three o' clock in the afternoon, John got a cab and drove straight to Greg's flat to get information.

As he pulled up out front, he noticed a shiny black car there. He had seen it before, that he knew; but where? He cursed himself for his lack of memory, but told himself it was excusable; after all, his main point of worry was focused on Sherlock at the moment.

He ran up the steps and rang the doorbell quite profusely.

No answer.

He rang it again.

Still no answer.

So, John Watson did one of the things he does best.

He broke the door down and stepped into Inspector Greg Lestrade's flat.

And found the man himself asleep with a certain Mycroft Holmes on his sofa, both (unfortunately) naked and (fortunately) mostly covered with a thin blanket.

Years later John would wish he could erase that image in his head.

Of course, they woke up the moment John broke through the door. And were now lying on the floor, Mycroft having somehow pushed them both off the couch in shock.

John glared down at them. "I'm very happy for you both, of course," he said tersely, "but would you mind giving me a moment of your fucking time to explain to me where the bloody hell Sherlock is?" he yelled, increasing in decibels for every word.

There was complete silence in the flat for at least a minute. Then Mycroft decided to break the ice. "Well, we _were_ planning to call you, John, after our 'fucking time', as you so graphically put it."

Greg choked on air.

John's face scrunched up. The images in his head were very disturbing. "Look, I didn't mean it like that…I just want to know where Sherlock is. And don't even try to pretend you don't know, Mycroft, because you know when Sherlock is _sleeping_, goddammit!"

Mycroft sighed. "Very well." He sat up, maintaining some dignity by wrapping the blanket around his naked figure. "John, we have reason to believe that Sherlock had been kidnapped by Moriarty again."

John stared at him, a deadly silence filling the room. "And exactly _how_ long have you known this?" he asked in a quiet, tense voice.

Mycroft twisted his lip. "Since he went missing."

John exploded. "WHAT THE _HELL _ARE YOU PLAYING AT, MYCROFT HOLMES?" he shouted in a voice so loud Greg thought it might shatter any mirror in the house.

Mycroft looked at him, willing him to calm down. "John. We thought we might be able to rescue him quickly and quietly, and we had every intention of letting you know when he was _safe_." He said meaningfully.

John turned to Greg, fuming. "And how long have _you_ known, Greg?"

Greg swallowed. "Don't blame me, mate, I only found out yesterday."

"Yes, and since then you've been shagging Mycroft like there's no tomorrow." He said bitterly.

Greg tilted his head. "Now, John, don't do that, we were just trying to help…"

"Yeah?" John said bitingly, "Well, you could help a lot more if you'd just tell me where my bloody partner is!" he screamed.

Greg and Mycroft looked at each other in confusion and shock. Greg was the first to speak. "Sorry, did you say partner?"

John gave them a withering look. "Grow up. He's my best friend, that's what I meant; of course that's what I meant!"

Mycroft sucked in a long breath. "Look. John. Concentrate. We're doing everything we can to find him. You see that laptop in the corner?" he gestured to it. "It's doing a full-bodied search on everything to do with Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. It should be done in about an hour, and then we will have something to go on, okay?"

John took a deep breath, trying to calm down. "Okay. Okay. He'll be fine."

Mycroft stood, dragging the blanket with him. "I believe that I will go put on some more suitable apparel." With that he was gone, not giving a thought to Greg, who was extremely glad he had thought to put on his pants just a moment ago.

John sat down in a saggy armchair nearby and put his head in his hands. "He wasn't even fully recovered yet, Greg." He said sadly. "The last time I saw him we had a disagreement…about his feelings…I don't know what to think anymore." He looked up at the inspector. "I can't lose him again, Greg. Not again. I felt like I was dead the last time; I can't do this again."

Greg leaned forward and put a hand on John's shoulder. "We'll find him, John. Mycroft's got his best men working on it; he was up all night last night, wouldn't even come to bed 'til I stripped for him, I swear." This made John laugh a bit.

Greg squeezed his shoulder. "We'll find him."

"Whatever it takes, we will find Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

A/N; Just a short note to say happy birthday to Benedict Cumberbatch! For those of you who are a bit new to the fandom (like me :D), he's the actor who plays Sherlock in the TV series. I hope he has a great birthday and starts filming Season 3 ASAP, because we're all super-excited. Also, thank you to everyone who has been following, reviewing, and even just reading this fic. It's going to wrap up in a couple chapters here; however, I need your help. Yes, everyone, even you *points to the person in the very back of the crowd*. I can't decide whether this deserves a sequel or not. So, if you've read it, please, please, please leave me a comment on what you think about a sequel.

Once again, thanks to all of you, and happy birthday to the man we know as Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective! :D Keep believing in Sherlock Holmes!


	18. Bart's Morgue, Basement

"Good morning, sexy!"

Sherlock groaned. Not again. How many more days would he be here? His mind swam through haziness, after effects of the morphine. He didn't even know how long he'd been here so far.

His eyes came into focus and he saw Moriarty standing above him, smiling gleefully. "Today we have a visitor, Sherly! How exciting, don't you think?" he turned aside, and Sherlock saw an older Chinese lady standing in the doorway. She had a cruel grin on her face, and as Sherlock struggled to organize his crumbling mind palace, he thought she looked vaguely recognizable…but why?

Moriarty gave him a knowing smile. "I think you two have met. General Shan, would you care to begin your…treatment?"

Sherlock couldn't help but gasp. She was supposed to be dead, wasn't she?

Moriarty saw the confusion on Sherlock's face. "Oh, oh!" he said in a high-pitched voice. "Come _on_, Sherly, can't you figure it out?" he sighed. "You angels are so _boring_!"

He leaned in close. "I'll tell you anyways, because I like you. _She's not dead_, honey. Little bit of news for you there!" he turned to the general. "After all, I couldn't kill one of my best kickers, could I?"

General Shan didn't move, or smile. She stayed perfectly still. "Whenever you are ready, Mr. Moriarty."

Moriarty nodded gravely. "Right. Go ahead, General. I'll just…step out to get a better view."

And with that Moriarty left.

General Shan turned to Sherlock. She whistled, and in came two muscular men. They yanked Sherlock's handcuffs over his too-small wrists, causing him to cry out in pain. They then tied both his hands to a metal ring in the wall with slivery hemp rope that poked at his sensitive wrists and made his eyes tear up.

The two men left, and it was just him and the General. She bowed low, and stood. What was she going to do, Sherlock wondered?

He didn't wonder for long.

….

John sat on Greg's couch, drinking a small cup of tea. Mycroft had gone to take a shower an hour ago, and about fifteen minutes after that Greg had muttered something about needing to brush his teeth. Those two were certainly going at it, he thought. How long had they been shagging? He smiled as he thought of what Sherlock would say…when he got back.

The smile slid off John's face and he groaned. Sherlock. Where was the man? He needed Sherlock like he needed air, food, water. Losing him again would be like dying. John had never tried drugs, not even once, but being around Sherlock could be comparable to the best high in the world. He had to find him. He just _had_ to.

Just then, Mycroft's laptop, sitting across the room on a precarious pile of old books, began to beep quietly. John abandoned his cup of tea, practically throwing it to the floor in his attempt to get to the device. He scrambled over the back of the couch, an old armchair, and a veritable jungle of potted plants before he was finally able to pull up the window and look at where Sherlock might be now.

However, to his surprise it wasn't showing Sherlock's location. It was showing a message in the mail inbox of Mycroft Holmes. John battled with himself about this. It could be something that was none of his business; something to do with the British government, or a private message from a friend. But, eventually John's need to do something about the situation won over, and he clicked on the email, opening it.

It was a video message, apparently streaming live. The camera was shaky, and as a hand reached up to fix it, John shouted for Greg and Mycroft to come and see. They arrived moments later, both shaky and out of breath, both soaking wet. John gave them a look. "Do you two never stop?"

"This only makes four, mate." Greg admonished, and then the camera was righted and they found themselves staring into a small room. There was a hook on the opposite wall, from which hung none other than Sherlock Holmes himself, tied with a length of hemp rope. John observed and diagnosed his injuries as best he could through the camera. Bruising all over; face, abdomen, chest…he was wearing only a pair of black silk boxers, his clothes nowhere in sight. He had several deep cuts all over his body, a few broken fingers, and, John was sure, numerous other injuries that he couldn't make out through the camera or (god forbid) were internal.

"Good morning, gentlemen! How are we doing today?"

John's eyes darkened as he recognized Moriarty's voice speaking from off the camera. "Damn you, Moriarty; he needs medical attention!"

Moriarty did not respond, and John couldn't tell whether it was because the video was only one way or because the psychopath simply didn't want to.

"Today on the Breaking Sherlock show, we have a special guest." A picture of General Shan lit up the screen, and then promptly disappeared. "Do you remember her, Johnny boy?"

John gritted his teeth. Yes, he did remember her. Very much.

The camera flicked back to the small room, with Sherlock hanging down. General Shan was now in front of him. She had no weapons, though; what was she going to do, John wondered?

His question was answered when Sherlock received a roundhouse kick to his already broken ribs. Over and over she kicked and hit, using some combined form of foreign martial arts. John found himself wincing with every kick, and he could practically hear Mycroft's ragged breathing. He found it strange that Greg wasn't reacting, until he saw the chair Greg was gripping. The inspector's knuckles were completely white.

Finally, she seemed to be finished. The General delivered one last kick to his ribs, mock bowed to him and the cameras, and left the room. Sherlock let out a wheezy cough and hacked up a mouthful of blood, decorating his own chest with more swirling red patterns. His eyes roamed the room, rolling back in his head every now and then, until they focused and found the camera. Sherlock's mouth fell open; John realized that the detective must have finally figured out he was being filmed. And that was when it happened.

Sherlock's mouth moved, and formed three simple words.

_Bart's Morgue, Basement_.

The screen cut to static, and above the sound of it John heard Moriarty's eerily echoing voice. "Come and get him, boys. I'm getting bo-red!" he said in a singsong voice. "And we all know what happens when I get bored."

And with that, the screen went black.


	19. Something More Sinister

"Sherlock, Sherlock…you ruined my little game. I was only having a bit of fun with Johnny boy and the iceman and his boyfriend, and you ruined it completely."

Sherlock looked over at Moriarty, now standing next to the bed. The man gave him a condescending smile. "You know what happens now, don't you, Sherly?"

Sherlock watched as Moriarty pulled a slim knife from his belt. "You have a bit of fun, I try not to scream from the monotony of it all." Sherlock said in an almost-bored voice, though the effect was ruined slightly by his raspy tone as he tried to draw air into his damaged lungs.

Jim grinned. "Not exactly, my dear." He drew the cool metal carefully across Sherlock's bare chest, just nicking the surface of each of his nipples. Sherlock drew in a careful, thin breath, trying to avoid the sharp blade. Moriarty looked down at him, shivering on the little metal bed. "I have a bit of fun, and you scream from the absolute pain of it all while your little friends try and find you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and clenched his fists, trying to ignore the pain pooling in his chest. "They're smarter than you think, Jim. They _will_ find me."

For a moment, Sherlock saw Moriarty's confidence waver ever so slightly. However, the psychopath composed himself within an instant, grinning. "Oh, of course they're going to _find_ you, Sherlock! It wouldn't be much fun if I just killed you_ now_, would it?" he smiled deviously. "No, I'm just going to have a little fun until they arrive, is all."

And with that Moriarty plunged his knife through Sherlock's right hand.

The consulting detective bit back a scream of pain, trying to control himself.

_It's just transport…you're going to be fine_.

Moriarty turned the knife in a three quarter circle and then drew it out of the wound completely, leaving it to spurt blood onto the bed below. Sherlock felt the knife being dragged softly along his arm, leaving a long, thin red trail behind it. Moriarty grinned and brought the knife across his neck and down the opposite arm gently, continuing the scarlet path along the man's alabaster skin. Sherlock didn't struggle, instead choosing to remain completely still as to avoid the sharp metal implement currently being dragged across his body. He let out a thin, hollow laugh. "If this is the best you can do, you're losing your touch, Jim."

Moriarty smiled, looking mischievously angelic. "Oh, no. Just warming you up for the grand finale." He giggled. "I can't wait for the finale. It's going to be so great, Sherlock. I really think I outdid myself on this one, you know?"

The psychopath stood, pulling the knife away from Sherlock's body. "Well, see you soon, honey. Just got to go make some final preparations for the 'show'!" he gave him a flirty grin and a wink. "Don't go anywhere!"

As soon as the man was gone, Sherlock struggled to sit up as far as his bindings would let him and look down at his chest. The sadistic villain had carved something across him from arm to arm, but at this angle he couldn't tell what it was. It was very detailed, but hadn't cut deep enough to scar, strangely. That meant that Jim had something else planned for him, something much more sinister than some simple knife wounds.

….

"Nobody goes in until we make sure the bastard doesn't have any bombs or shit that will blow our heads off if we take a step, okay?"

John gulped and nodded. "Sounds like a good plan, Greg. I don't fancy being in bombing distance of Moriarty. I was once, and it wasn't exactly a picnic."

Mycroft coughed. "And Gregory, how exactly do you propose to check for bombs without alerting this Moriarty character of our presence?"

"Simple," Greg said cockily, "We ask to negotiate."

With that the inspector turned towards the doors to the morgue and, using a megaphone, said, "Moriarty! We know you're in there; come out and talk to us, you coward!"

Suddenly, the two bomb squad technicians to the left and right of the three men fell to the ground, dead. John leaned down by the one nearest to him, and looked up after a few moments. "Gunshot wound to the heart. Definitely dead."

"_You won't be needing them_."

All three men jumped upon hearing the voice they knew to be Sherlock's. "Sherlock?" yelled John. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"_Sherlock can't hear you. He's just being a good little bitch and reading off everything I say. Kind of like that lovely little game we played a while back; except there's no bombs involved this time_."

"Oh, well _done_, Gregory," Mycroft said drily. "That negotiations idea you had worked _very_ well."

John's body tensed. "What are you doing then, Jim? _Talking_ him to death?"

John could practically picture the psychopath's malicious smile. "_Oh, no. Don't worry, boys, I have plans for our Sherly_." And suddenly, there was a pause in the conversation.

John clenched his fists. "Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

"_John! John, no, don't come in here, get away, please, I can't_…"

There was the sound of scuffling, and then a loud thump accompanied by a groan. Suddenly, Moriarty's voice came out of nowhere. "Oh…oh, Sherlock, what a bad boy. You're not allowed to _warn_ the man, for heaven's sake!" John could practically picture the man shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Better figure out how to get in here and save your love fast, John Watson. Because I'm getting bored…and we all know what happens when I get bored."

And with those last, ominous words, Moriarty's voice zoned out and the soft sound of raindrop static replaced it.

Mycroft cursed rather badly, surprising both John and Greg. "How do we get there? Great plan, Gregory, very good, just let the psychotic murderer know that we're standing right outside his hideout…"

Greg interrupted, not very happy with being blamed for the failure. "Now, listen here, Mickey, you can't just put this all on _me_, you're not exactly trying very hard to find him for a _genius_…"

John tuned them out, trying to think fast. How could he get in there? For once, he wasn't going to listen to Sherlock; he had to get in there, he just_ had_ to save him. John couldn't imagine life without Sherlock there, and the thought of losing him scared him more than anything. Hearing his voice as he had just a moment ago, desperate and scared, upset and hurting, had made John's heart ache more than anything before…

And that was when it clicked in John's mind.

The voices.

Where had they come from?

He trotted carefully towards the building, leaving Mycroft and Greg arguing behind him. As he reached the edge of the pavement, he found exactly what he was looking for; a small grate set in the concrete, just big enough for one adult male to fit through. Leaning down to pick up a small pebble from the ground, he skipped it down between the bars, and heard it echo all the way down. Hearing Sherlock's voice in his head, he carefully calculated the distance to the floor below. It was deep enough that if he stood in it, his head would reach just about one meter below the grate.

Sherlock had once told him that serial killers and psychopaths like Moriarty liked to leave clues; they wanted their work to be recognized. _This_ was that clue; the voices. They hadn't come through speakers or radios or telephones; Sherlock, down in the basement of the morgue, had spoken loudly, his voice echoing off the walls and coming up to the sidewalk. Just a short distance from where he had been standing.

John turned back to his companions, still bickering. "Hey, Greg…" he said, but the men didn't hear him. He growled, frustrated. Sherlock's life was at stake, for God's sake, and all they could do was argue about who was to blame?

"Oi!" he yelled loudly, "Are you just going to stand there all day, or do you want to actually help save Sherlock's life?"

Greg and Mycroft went completely silent. "What have you found, then?" Greg asked, looking hassled.

John gestured to the grate in the ground and explained.

As soon as the two men understood, they helped John to pull the thick metal grate off the ground. John pulled his gun out of his belt and held it at ready stance as two of the other officers helped to lower him down into the dark hole.

Once inside, he moved forward to make room for Greg and Mycroft, who had insisted on coming to help. John turned to them. "Okay, here's the deal; you've both had your chance at being in charge. Both attempts went to pot. Now, I'm in charge, and you'll both do _exactly_ as I say. Understood?"

Both men nodded foolishly, feeling quite like they were back in primary school.

John nodded, satisfied. "Good." He began to march forward into the inky darkness, towards the psychotic murderer that had held his best friend captive for so long.


	20. Scream And Burn

_A/N; Well, last chapter! I would like to thank everybody who's been following, favoriting, reviewing…even just reading. You guys have no idea what this means to me._

_I know that when you're done with this chapter you're going to want to kill me. But please don't, because a sequel is already in the works, and dead girls don't write :)_

_Ta!_

_-Anonymoustache_

* * *

"Sherlock!" Moriarty said in a mock offended voice. "That was very rude of you, to interrupt me when I was in the middle of a conversation with Dr. Watson."

All Sherlock gave him in response was a cold glare.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard a distant plunk from inside the grate he had yelled through and heard faint voices.

Moriarty sighed. "Now he's figured it out. It was too easy!" he shook his head sadly. "I made it too easy."

Sherlock raised his chin arrogantly. "I told you. John will always come for me."

Moriarty gave him a half smile. "Well, well, well. Apparently your faith in the army doctor is well-founded, Sherly." He put a thoughtful look on his face. "However, I can't help but feel like he needs a little bit more incentive…"

From under the bed, Moriarty pulled a high-powered blowtorch, smiling deviously.

It didn't take Sherlock's deduction skills to know what was going to happen next.

As the flames began to lick gently at the pattern on his chest, Sherlock did his best to stay still and quiet. He would not give in to this fiend. Moriarty wanted him to scream, wanted John to hear Sherlock's voice raised in agony. He would not. He would be strong. He _would not scream_.

Moriarty leaned in close to the consulting detective, his lips inches from Sherlock's ear. "Scream, Sherlock. You know you want to." He winked. "Do it."

Sherlock clamped his lips together. "No..." he said in one pained, whispered breath. "No."

The flames were lowered back to his chest.

Sherlock could smell his own flesh burning.

_Oh, God. I'm going to die._

Moriarty's breath tickled the side of his neck. "_Scream_," he hissed.

Sherlock screamed.

* * *

John's head snapped up. "What was that?" he turned to Greg. "Did you hear that?"

Greg nodded solemnly. "I did. And I really wish I hadn't." John's eyes narrowed, and Greg threw a hand over his own mouth. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it like that, John. I just meant…"

John waved his hand. "It's fine. Let's just keep going." He said tersely.

The two of them continued down the tunnel, flashlights glowing dimly against the shadowed walls, followed closely by Mycroft and two other officers.

Of all the things John had experienced with Sherlock, the one thing that would always echo in the deepest, darkest corners of his brain was the sound of Sherlock's screams.

The screaming continued, caused by what John could only imagine to be a considerable amount of pain. However, one thing John realized was that Sherlock's screams were also Moriarty's sick way of giving him a clue to Sherlock's whereabouts. He followed the screaming, directing them deeper and deeper into the labyrinth of tunnels underneath the morgue's basement.

John knew they were getting close when the screams increased in volume. He forced himself forward, holding his gun aloft. Greg was close behind, trying to control his rapid breathing. Mycroft was shaking, actually shaking; John could practically feel the man's tremors through the floor.

Finally, a grate appeared ahead, throwing a minimal amount of light into the tunnel. John tiptoed right up to it. He could hear Sherlock's screaming loud and clear now. He peered through the bars, but couldn't see anything except Moriarty's feet and the legs of a bed…

The legs of a bed?

_Oh, God_.

John turned to the rest of his team. "Okay, listen up," he hissed in his softest, most deadly voice, "Sherlock's in there, and he's tied to a bed. Moriarty's doing something to him-God knows what, though I hope I'm wrong in my assumptions. Now hear this; we are not leaving without Sherlock. Understood?"

The four others solemnly nodded.

John turned back to the grate, and then remembered something. "Oh, and one last thing…"

His eyes flashed with a vengeful hatred. "I get first shot at the bastard."

* * *

Sherlock's eyes rolled back in his head. He knew that he was going to lose consciousness, and very soon. Where was John?

Moriarty put the finishing touches on the pattern on Sherlock's chest, then stood back to admire his handiwork. "Y'know, I wouldn't make a bad artist," he remarked as casually as if he was commenting on the weather. "But killing people is so much more fun!"

Just then, the grate near the bed burst open, and a body rolled out into the room. The person immediately stood up and trained a gun on Moriarty.

_John_. Sherlock smiled. He had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life. He had known all along John would come for him.

"Drop it," said John, pointing at the blowtorch in the psychopath's hands.

Moriarty's face transformed into a devilish grin. "Really? Okay!" he said cheerfully, and he dropped the torch, still lit, straight down.

Right on Sherlock's chest.

The flame hit his rib cage with the force of an elephant, and Sherlock's head filled with a white noise. His eyesight blurred as Moriarty ran from the room and John chased after him, yelling something after him. And suddenly, there was someone standing over him, lifting the torch off of his chest, and Sherlock was so relieved, he could finally slip away into his mind palace, into blessed unconsciousness, to the silence that beckoned him…

Until someone slapped his bruised face. Hard.

"Owwwww." Sherlock slurred, trying to move his uncooperative mouth. His eyes watered and then came back into focus to see Greg Lestrade standing over him.

"Sergeant Graves, head back out to the others and tell them to get down here immediately. And call an ambulance, for God's sake!"

One of the other men (there were three others as well as Lestrade…when had they come in?) headed back into the grate. Sherlock could hear him yelling.

Suddenly, Sherlock gasped. "G-Greg!" he rasped, his throat constricting slightly. "J-John…I need…John…went after him…stop him…please!" he rambled in a string of nonsensical words. However, Greg understood. He darted out the door, with a "don't-let-him-out-of-your-sight" hurled over his shoulder.

Sherlock's brow furled as he looked at the other two men. One was standing slightly to the front. Very well, he would do. Middle age, wife, two children, no affairs, recently hired as a backup officer for Scotland Yard. Balding, fairly tall, steel-blue eyes, tan skin (due to a vacation in the Bahamas a few weeks ago). Lactose intolerant, wears contacts, allergic to wheat.

Sherlock sighed. At least his mind was mostly intact. After all, the rest was just transport.

The man moved away a bit, to inspect a suspicious-looking stain on the wall. Sherlock's vision clouded again at the sudden movement, but soon cleared, leaving him staring at the other man, who was now approaching his bed.

Who…oh. Oh. OH.

Sherlock knew exactly who _this_ was.

Mycroft Holmes leaned down over his brother's mangled body. "Sherlock. Tell me how you are hurt." He said tenderly

Sherlock looked up into the soft, caring eyes of his older brother.

And punched him in the face.

* * *

"Well, well, well. Come to save your lovebird, finally?"

John stepped out onto the hospital roof and glared. "He's not my lovebird. He's my friend. A friend who you have severely wounded, both physically and psychologically. For which I definitely intend to. Make. You. Pay."

Moriarty frowned and held up his hands in self-defense. "Really. No heroics, please. I find them so bo-ring!" he said in a singsong voice.

Moriarty stepped closer to the army doctor. "How does it feel, Dr. Watson?" he smiled innocently. "How does it feel to know that Sherlock's broken, and that there was nothing you could do about it?"

John yelled in rage and stumbled forward, forcing Moriarty to the very edge of the building. "SAY THAT AGAIN, YOU BASTARD!"

Moriarty grinned, teetering on the rooftop. "Try not to lose your temper, honey! After all, if you hurt me, I'd have to kill you. And Sherlock really needs you, especially right now. It'd be a pity, really."

John glared. "Why do you care?"

The consulting criminal sighed. "Because I need Sherlock to survive." He rolled his eyes. "Duh."

John raised his eyebrows and stepped back, allowing the criminal to get his footing back. "Why?"

Moriarty gave him an it's-so-obvious look. "Because Sherlock and I…we were made for each other, John." he spread his hands. "He needs me as much as I need him."

John stepped forward, putting the gun under Moriarty's chin. "No, he doesn't. Sherlock has _never_ needed you, Jim. And you know what?" He pulled the gun away and leaned in close, whispering his next words. "He never will."

Jim's calm façade flickered for just a moment, but then reappeared. "Nevertheless, John, he really can't be allowed to die. I would be so BORED!" he whined.

"Really?" John asked with gritted teeth. "Well, I'll give you this; Sherlock will survive. In fact, he'll probably be blowing up the flat in a month or so. But you…you will be bored for the rest of your sorry life, Moriarty. Which most likely won't be that long, if Mycroft has anything to say about it."

Jim snorted. "That fatty? He doesn't scare me."

It was John's turn to smile deviously. "He should."

Jim's calm disappeared completely. "Why? What did I miss?" he yelled.

John smirked. "As you were hurrying out of the basement back there, you left something behind. Something I gather to be very important."

Moriarty's face went completely blank. His hand instinctively went to his jacket pocket, but he found nothing there.

John pulled a thin datastick out of his jeans pocket and waved it around. "See?"

The criminal's face contorted into a horrible look. "Give it to me, John Watson."

John tilted his head. "So it _is_ important, then?" he nodded in satisfaction. "Good."

Moriarty darted towards him, reaching for the important datastick, but John sidestepped the man easily.

Jim stood there, panting. John was near the edge of the rooftop, still holding the datastick.

"I will use this, and I will destroy you." John said, voice edged with a dark menace that he rarely used. "And then? Then you won't be bored. Oh, no, you _definitely_ won't be bored then."

They stood there for what seemed to be ages, the consulting criminal and the ex-army doctor. One triumphant, one desperate.

Jim lunged towards John, knocking him backwards toward the edge of the rooftop.

Time seemed to stand still.

They were locked there, the consulting criminal and the army doctor, struggling on the very tip of Bart's morgue rooftop. The very place where Sherlock and the same criminal had stood four years before.

And then, almost in slow motion, Jim rolled them both over, towards the edge of the roof. They grappled with each other, trying desperately to stay on the roof. John kept a tight grip on the datastick, trying to throw the consulting criminal off.

Nearer and nearer to the edge they drew, until both their upper bodies were hanging off the edge.

Jim threw John off of him.

A single body fell from the roof of St. Bart's hospital and landed with a sickening thud on the pavement below.

_The End_

* * *

_Or is it?_


End file.
